


The New York Times Effect

by NunquamIterum



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Science Fiction, Supernatural Elements, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 11:05:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 67,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NunquamIterum/pseuds/NunquamIterum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATED</p><p>With Michael and Lucifer out and about, the Winchesters are facing Apocalypse Round II, reportedly thanks to a Time Lord who so far has remained out of the picture. The Winchesters' only hope to counter this new threat lies in making an alliance with the Doctor, who up until recently had been hunting them down.  Unfortunately, the Time Lord has taken an extended and involuntary vacation to a new and frightening place that can only be described as out of his genre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mondays are Hell

**Super** WhoLock

 

            If there was one thing that was human about Crowley, it was his hatred of Mondays.

            The demon had never liked them, even when he was actually human.  But now, as the self-proclaimed ruler of Hell, he had grown to dread them as a man might dread a root canal.

            In Hell, Monday was the choice day of the week when all of last week’s work was submitted.  From the pile of deals to be officiated, to the whispering of insurrection, to the reports of activity of a Winchester nature, there was always an obscene amount of work waiting for him on his desk, bright and early Monday morning.

            Simply put, there was far too much that needed to be done, and there was only one person on the face of the planet that he trusted to do it: himself. 

            The King of Hell sighed and sat back in his chair, wearily eyeing aforementioned pile of deals.  It was true the pile was rather high, but he really ought to stop fooling himself; the pile OUGHT to be a lot higher.  It was part of the reason he was so stressed.  When he had solely been in the crossroads business, he knew for a fact that they had brought in at least twice the number weekly.

            The truth was that Hell was losing customers, and there wasn’t much Crowley could do it about it.

            Humanity had a talent for being thick in the head, but even they could only ignore so much.  The earthquakes, illness, and floods of the Apocalypse had started getting them antsy, especially with the laughably inaccurate Mayan prophecy due date approaching.  But ever since a certain trench-coated ‘God’ had decided to come out publicly and proceed to go on a religious-themed killing spree, the populous had suddenly decided to tread more lightly in favor of morality to appease ‘their Lord’.  They also seemed to value their souls a bit more, in light that they might not live the ten years to enjoy anything they would have sold it for.

            Crowley reached for the decanter of Craig and glass at the edge of his desk.  The amount of drink left was disturbingly low, he noticed.

            If there was one thing that Leviathan had known, it was that he needed to keep a low profile to stay successful.  Well, a low profile in the sense that he kept his darker side out of the news.  In fact, he had even, to an extent, kept quite a bit of the supernatural out of the people’s line of sight too…  It was a shame that Dick proved to be such a dick.  Crowley would have really liked to have a leviathan or two at his beck and call… they were so much more efficient than demons.    But really… Canada?

            “What we really need,” Crowley said to no one in particular, “is a nice long stretch of quiet to get back on track.”

            “You do realize that was Hoover’s plan to get out of the Great Depression.” A wry voice answered him.  “And he wasn’t re-elected.”

            Slightly startled, Crowley looked up.  A perfectly normal-looking fellow stood in the doorway, leaning against the door frame.  He wore a gray suit, and he spoke with a British accent.  But despite the appearance of normalcy, the presence that now swept through the room was ancient and powerful, almost overwhelming.  It was neither angel nor demon, and certainly not human.  Crowley had only come across one like it once before.

            “Well,” Crowley said, eyeing the newcomer, “fortunately, we don’t have elections for the position King of Hell.  It’s more of a, you-hold-onto-it-as-long-as-you-lacerate-the-competition position.”  His guest laughed at this.

            “A physical power struggle!  How 1930!  You make the administration of the Eternal fire seem like a petty gang in which everyone is dealing behind everyone else to become gang leader.  I suppose I shouldn’t have expected much more from a species of ex-humans twisted and burned into nothing but smoke.”

            “We are only demons after all.” Crowley replied sarcastically.

            “Yes, quite!  Imagine my surprise when I came down here to discover YOU were the infamous Crowley, King of Hell himself!  What a PROPER title.  You don’t quite fit the image I had prepared though… I was expecting someone, oh, taller maybe.  Certainly not someone who frequents around as an FBI agent with my old colleague.”

            “We all have our hidden talents.” Crowley said delicately, “For instance, the air around you seems a bit… charged.”

            “Believe me; you haven’t the slightest idea…” The stranger said, looking casually around Crowley’s office.  He drummed his fingers on the table absentmindedly, as he looked at Crowley’s framed picture of the Bobby Singer deal.

            “Can I get you a drink?” Crowley offered his guest.  “It’s not often I have company of an intelligent nature down here… and frankly I’d love to know how exactly you found ‘here’.” If there was one thing Crowley knew better than anyone else, it was that it paid to be polite until you were certain there was no point in it.

            “Oh I’m sure you would!  But I’m afraid I can’t… I’m here strictly on business, and I have quite a bit that needs to be done… I’m sure you can relate.” He glanced at Crowley’s desk.  “At any rate, I thought I’d just pop in and give you this notice… you know, courtesy and all.”

            “Very thoughtful of you.” Crowley said, fighting the feeling of alarm that was growing by the second.  “But what ‘notice’ are we talking about exactly?”

            “Well, ‘Mr. Delaware’… I thought it only fair to warn you that Hell is about to get rather **_hot_**.” The man said with a smile.

            “…Well I’m aware of the common stereotypical association, but that sounds rather metaphorical.  Care to elaborate?”

            “I’m afraid I haven’t got the time to spare.  I’m running a bit behind schedule, and I do have a door to go knock on… have a nice day, Crowley… though I doubt you will…”

            And with that, the stranger smiled and left, leaving Crowley to sit for a second, quite lost.

**_SMASH_ **

           As the terrible smash echoed up from where it occurred far away in the depths of Hell, Crowley was brought roughly to his senses.  He hastily grabbed his jacket and looked for his cellphone.

**_SMASH_ **

           He tore through his file cabinet.  Files on demons, files on Angels, the whole drawer on the Winchesters… Where was it?!

**_SMASH_ **

           Finally he found it.  A thin file marked simply, “Doctor Who?” He glanced around briefly, desperately hoping he hadn’t forgotten anything.  Oh yes.  The bottle of Craig… it wouldn’t pay to leave that.

**_SMASH_ **

            Crowley was long gone before the fourth knock sounded, but as he sat down on the dingy motel bed, miles upon miles away, he knew one thing for certain.

            This was the worst Monday he’d had in a long time.


	2. Common Sense

Super **Who** Lock

 

          “Doctor Who?”

          “No, just ‘Doctor’.  ‘The Doctor’ if you want to be proper about it.”

          “It’s just a name.  That’s all I’m asking for.”

          “That IS my name.”

          “The word “Doctor” is not a name.  It’s a title, invented in cerca 1300 A.D., to mean-“

          “Oh don’t lecture me with the etymology… I was there at the time… In fact, I was the reason the word was introduced to this planet…”

          The only sound for a couple of minutes was the sound of the clock ticking away the time on the wall, but the two occupants of the room were rather preoccupied with their own thoughts to notice.  The Doctor’s mind was far away, across time and space.  Ella Thompson was trying to recall the number of the most professional help she could remember, should she need it for this case.  999 (the UK equivalent to 911) was starting to seem the most qualified to deal with this one.

          “Alright.  If you won’t tell me what your real name is, perhaps you’ll tell me why are you here?  Generally people make appointments before they show up on my doorstep demanding a session.”

          “I’m not the appointment making type.” The response came with a half-heartedly cheeky smile.

          “Clearly.  But you’re avoiding my question.”

          “…I’m here because… a woman told me to.  Sort of a wife-figure, if you want to get technical.  Anyway, this is what humans do, isn’t it?  They go to…” The Doctor gestured to the therapist, “…professionals. She thought I ought to give it a go.  Can’t say I’m that impressed.”

          “Professionals need information before they can do their job.  Now, I am a therapist, but I’m mainly just for those who are returning from military service shell-shocked.  And while you evidently have some problems-”

          “I’ve been in more wars than I can count, if that’s a prerequisite.”

          “…well that’s not exactly what I meant-”

          “I suppose I’m shell-shocked too now that I think about it.  If you want to get technical.  Have been for quite some time too.”

          “Why?”

          “I…” The Doctor paused looking up at the therapist, who met his gaze with a surprisingly hard one of her own.  He looked away.

          “I lost… quite a bit.  Friends.  Family.  Everything it seems.”

          “In the war?  Or because you went to war yourself and left them behind?”

          “A bit of both I suppose.”

          “And now you’re lonely?”

          “Lonely?  No of course not.  Why do you think I’m here?  I CAME here to BE alone.  I don’t know anyone at all in this place, and no one knows me.  It’s practically why I’m here.” The Doctor said, fidgeting.

          “So you’re running away now?”

          “Well… no… not entirely… just sort of… avoiding.” He waved a hand in the air, unable to come up with an adequate selection of words.

          “Why are you avoiding the people who know you?”

          “Because they’ll want to talk I suppose.  Or they don’t want to talk about it and instead try to come up with rather obvious schemes to ‘take my mind off it’.” The Doctor replied, tiredly.

          “And you don’t want to talk about it?”

          “No.  Not at all really.”

          “…you came to a therapist to not talk about what’s bothering you.” Only years of being a professional with hard cases kept Thompson from smiling at this oxymoron.  The Doctor was silent.

          “Well you’re not really a patient of mine, so don’t feel you have an obligation to talk about anything.  But what I do know is that ‘avoiding’ is not the answer to any problem.  You want my advice on how to get over loss?  Take it slow, but face it.  You can’t avoid your friends forever.”

          “You don’t know who you’re talking to...” The Doctor said with another half-hearted smile, but it faded quickly.  “But I suppose you’re right.  And I suppose I should be going.”  He stood and turned to leave.

          “Wait!-” Thompson stood hurriedly.  The Doctor paused but did not turn.

          “Yes?” He inquired.  Thompson’s inner medical student was shouting at her not to let him go.  He was a mental case, as sure as could be, based on what she’d seen.  And yet…

          She sighed.

          “…Good luck.”

          “Thanks.”

          The Doctor pulled open the door and moved out into a nearly empty waiting room.  He stood there for a moment, lost in thought.

          There were plenty of people who knew who he was, and they all seemed to know about what had happened.  Every time he saw someone, it was the first thing out of their mouths.  It was downright torturous to be faced with it every day.  But what was worse were the eyes.  The pity, the sadness.  The fear that he was not himself anymore.

          But the therapist was right… he had to face them all sometime.  He could just start slow.  Who did he know that would be the best to talk to about it?  River?  Maybe not… she was too tied up in the issue... So was everyone else.  He needed someone who had never even heard of the Ponds.

          In an instant it hit him.  He knew exactly who he wanted to talk to.  The Doctor broke out of his reverie and glanced around for the exit.  It was then that he spotted the other guy that had been in the room.

          A little bit on the short side, he wore a button down and slacks.  Despite the fact he had his head in his hands, he had a certain air of rigidity around him, which the Doctor recognized as belonging only to a soldier.  But more than anything, the Doctor recognized the look of the fellow’s face.  He had seen it in the mirror often enough lately.  It was the look of total loss.

          There was a story here, and possibly a real adventure to go with it.  The Doctor could smell it.  All it would take was a few measly words to lead to a conversation.  It had happened often enough before.

          It would take his mind off things.  It would be an excellent escape.

          “John?” The therapist poked her head out of the room and looked for her next patient, who raised his head.  His eyes were dull with an indescribable pain.  Wordlessly, he stood and followed Thompson into the room.  The Doctor watched them go and then turned to leave himself.

          Perhaps another time.

**…**

          For what seemed like the 256th time, the Doctor checked the slip of paper he had.  There could be no doubt about it.  This was the place.  Winston Elementary.

          As the timelord climbed the steps of the school, he vaguely wondered how Churchill would feel about all the things that were named after him.

          “Nobody ever names anything after me.” He mumbled to himself, as he pushed the door open.

          After charming/psychic papering his way past the receptionist and several teachers, the Doctor finally found his way to the playground.  It wasn’t the best or the worst play set he had ever seen, but as soon as he laid eyes on it, his mind began to whir with the possibilities of improving it.  Before he knew what he was doing, his sonic was in hand.

          For a brief moment he was back to his old self.  But then the moment was over.  He remembered why he was here.  And he quickly turned around, searching for a familiar face.

          Of course he didn’t find one.  After all, the last time he had seen the particular face he was looking for it had been an infant.  But after speaking briefly with some delightful other primary schoolers, he found just the chap he was looking for.

          “Stormegeddon, Dark Lord of All, I do believe it has been some time!” He said jovially as he approached a small blond kid, who looked simply confused.

          “You… don’t remember me?” the Doctor asked tentatively.  The kid shook his head no.

          “You… are Alfie, correct?” he asked again.  The kid nodded.

          “Ah good.  I should have realized you wouldn’t recognize me… it’s been what, seven-ish years, give or take?  Yes I knew you when you were just a pint sized tyrant!”

          The kid stared.

          “I see you’ve lost none of your capacity for staring.  Very good.  Come have a seat.”  The Doctor patted the spot next to him on the brick wall.  Stormegeddon, Dark Lord of All complied, and with the Timelord’s help, was soon seated.

          “So.  How are the folks?” The Doctor asked casually.

          “Fine.” The kid replied.  His voice was high and adorable, as befit a kid his age.

          “Excellent.  You uh, don’t have any siblings, do you?”

          “Nope.”

          “Any other mates in the neighborhood to play with?”

          “Not really.”

          “Well...  I guess that makes you pretty lonely.”

          “Yeah I guess.”

          The two sat there for the moment, quite an odd looking pair.  Finally the Doctor broke the silence again.

          “What do you do when you’re lonely, Alfie?”

          “I dunno… pretend I guess.”

          “An excellent strategy….  But… what would you do if you couldn’t pretend?  What would you do then?”

          “Find some real live friends.  Or try at least.”

          “Another stunning plan.  Unfortunately all my real live friends are gone.” the Doctor said sadly, staring off into space.

          “What happened to them?” Alfie tilted his head, looking at the curious man in the tweed and bow tie.

          “They’re… stranded.  And I can’t park my car to get them.” he said tiredly.  Alfie looked thoughtful for a moment.

          “Are they stranded on a desert island?”

          “What?  No of course not!  Why-” the Doctor didn’t even finish his sentence before Alfie continued.

          “Are they in a swamp?”

          “No-”

          “A maze?”

          “No!”

          “Where are they?”

          “New York City!” The Doctor said exasperatedly.  He thought he’d never meet anyone who could preempt his speech pattern.  But here was this little kid doing it rather effortlessly.

          “Then how are they stranded?” Alfie asked, tilting his head again in a questioning fashion.

          “It’s… complicated.  But like I said, I can’t park my car to get them.” The Doctor said glumly.

          “Well…” Alfie said slowly, thinking it through, “Why don’t you just park somewhere else and walk?”

          The Doctor froze.  It was as if everything about reality that had always run smoothly was suddenly jammed.

          Why hadn’t he thought of that before?

          In a flash the Doctor was off the fence and running for the front of the school where the TARDIS was parked.

          “Thank you Stormegeddon!” He shouted over his back.

          “Uh… sure?” The kid said uncertainly, watching the supposed adult run off.

          Upon reaching it, the Doctor wrenched open the door to the TARDIS and sprang to the control board, twiddling this and that, booting up the spaceship.

          Was it possible?  Could  it really be possible?  Would this work?

          Of course it would.

          It was common sense.

          The Doctor was going to go fetch the Ponds.


	3. All Work and No Play Makes Jim a Dull Boy

SuperWho **Lock**

 

            Boredom.

            A nine letter word, it is defined professionally as “an unpleasant, transient affective state in which the individual feels a pervasive lack of interest in and difficulty concentrating on the current activity.”  Some believe that it is solely the victim’s fault, that they are not out-going enough, that there are in fact plenty of interesting things out there to find if a body would just get up and look.

            Jim Moriarty disagreed.

            It was very clearly everyone else’s fault for being exceptionally predictable at every turn.  No matter what he did, everyone and everything played it out exactly as expected.  Nothing ever changed unexpectedly.

            But that’s how life rolled along.  He had learned that from the start.  Everyone simply danced on their strings in a tangled mess.  No one knew how to pull the strings.  Not even Sherlock.  He just happened to know how to trace them back to the puppeteer.

            Moriarty cast a bored glance at his iPhone screen.  No new news.  He hadn’t expected any.  It had been fun at first, when this whole game started.  Things had been hot and heavy and exciting for a while.  The best of times.  But that was a long time ago.

            Before they had died.

            Moriarty had never really expected to kill Sherlock.  It would have been a bit of a let down to be honest.  Why go to all the trouble of crushing the detective’s reputation if he wouldn’t be around to see everyone despise him and remember him with nothing but disdain?

            And to see the torture the good doctor was going through.  What a masterstroke.

            But ever since they had both left the realm of the ‘living’, it had become a game of waiting.  Waiting for one or the other to come out and return to the world so the next phase of the game could begin.  Moriarty had a master plan of course.  He always did.  But even he, with the patience of a spider, was being tested now.  And the waiting was killing him.

_“Well you can tell by the way I use my walk,_

_I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk.”_

            Frowning slightly, the consulting criminal picked up his phone and looked at the caller ID.  Completely indifferent, he answered the call.

            “Tell me you have something Sebastian.”

            “No word on him, but-“

            “Then why did you call?  You’re wasting my time.” Moriarty’s calm voice changed suddenly, turning dangerous, as it often did these days.  Boredom didn’t suit him well.

            “It’s about him sir.” Moran said carefully.  Moriarty fell silent at this.  Sebastian Moran took a deep breath, trying to stay calm and professional.  It was a bit hard to do, considering he knew his life might just depend on his delivery of this information.

            “I’m listening.” Moriarty said coolly, standing up.  Moran could tell he had the mastermind’s complete attention now.  It was a frightening prospect.

            “There is no news of the detective himself, but there is word on the streets of something else; a strange incident in a TV show studio nearby.  A British actor appeared out of nowhere in the middle of filming.  Like… on camera or something.  The cops are trying to sort it out, but…”

            Moriarty took the phone away from his ear slowly, a small malicious smile playing across his features.  Strange attracted Sherlock like nothing else.  He rolled his neck and shoulders slowly.

            It was finally show time.

            He lifted the phone back up to his ear.

            “Tell me everything.”


	4. New York, New York, a Wonderful Town!

**Super** WhoLock

 

          “Okay once more… why are we here?” Dean asked.

          “No idea.  All Cas said was that something was wrong and that we should meet him here.”

          “He didn’t give us anything else… at all?”

          “Nope.”

          “He called… on a cellphone.”

          “Yes.”

          “Why didn’t he just come speak to us himself?”

          “He said he couldn’t afford to leave where he was…and he apparently somehow knew you were in the shower, and he said something about how much you value your personal space.”

          “Hmm.” Dean grunted something akin to an acknowledgement.  “Well I still don’t understand why he hasn’t shown yet.  We’ve been here for what, half an hour?”

          “Almost an hour actually... if you count the outskirts of the city and the traffic.  While you were looking for a parking spot, and uh, praying, I’ve been checking the headlines to see if I could find what’s up in the Big Apple…” Sam said, gesturing to the folded newspaper he was still scanning.

          “And?” Dean.

          “Well, I’m getting mixed results.  So far all the articles that seem remotely interesting to us turned out to just be… really weird cases.  Nothing supernatural, just really messed up people.”

          “Well that’s New York for you…” Dean acknowledged.

          “Tell me about it.” Sam said, taking a huge bit of his Caesar salad.  Dean watched him for a moment before he shook his head sadly and turned his attention to the paper.  He snatched it up, to Sam’s muffled protest and opened it as he sat down.  He glanced at the headline and stopped  to look at Sam.

          “… you actually bought the New York Times?” he asked his brother incredulously.

          “Dude.  We’re in New York.  It is the local paper.” Sam shrugged, defending himself.

          “Sam, the New York Times is National and World News and a ton of crap-tastic advice columns.” Dean said tersely.  “There’s nothing local about it all.”

          Sam ignored him and continued to eat his salad.

          “You are such a nerd.” Dean shook his head again, folding the paper over and beginning to read.  Silence reigned for a few minutes before Dean broke it.

          “Hey look!  They’re going to release a book containing the complete A. P. Williams!” He said with a grin, pointing the article out to Sam.  Sam swallowed another shovelful of salad before answering.

          “How do **_you_** know who A. P. Williams was?!” He asked incredulous.  “A 1930s essayist?!”

          “I’m not completely against a little culture.” Dean said defensively.

          Sam gave him a look.

          “Eh, Williams might have had a hand in the publishing of _Melody Malone_.” Dean said with a satisfied smile.  “Best book I ever read.”

          “You mean the only book you’ve ever read.” Sam muttered, rolling his eyes.  He scanned the park for a familiar looking trench coat to no avail.  He scraped the last bit of salad out of his bowl before throwing it away in the trash can nearby.

          “I don’t know about this Dean… I mean, it’s nice to finally be in the big city and everything, but I can’t help but feel we’re on a whole new level here.  We dodge the occasional country sheriff and police… but this city has the most sophisticated cop force in the nation.  There are probably a whole slew of actual FBI agents here.  We may be playing out of our league.” Sam said uncertainly, glancing around again.

          “Oh give it a rest Sammy.  I for one, am going to give Cas another ring.” Dean said, folding the paper and bowing his head.  Sam bit his lip for a moment, thinking.

          “Hail Castiel, full of himself, we came to be with thee.  Awkward art thou amongst everyone, and late is thy trench-coated ass.” Dean said in his most reverent voice.  They both waited for a second.  Nothing happened.

          “Maybe he’s busy?” Sam suggested.

          “That feathery moron stood us up.” Dean said incredulously.

          “Well your prayers aren’t exactly the most compelling requests…” Sam started but stopped at the look Dean gave him.

          “…right.  Why don’t we head back to the Impala and try to find a room for the night that won’t break out bank.” Sam suggested.  He stood and Dean followed suit.

          “You know the ironic thing is that most people pray their entire lives and never even see an angel.” Sam said tiredly stretching.

          “So?  We HAVE seen an angel, and therefore ignoring us is just rude on his part.  I would make a better angel then him any day of the week.”

          “Oh sure.  Because you’re totally the righteous type.” Sam said rolling his eyes.

          “What are you talking about?  I’m righteous!” Dean said indignantly.

          “Sure Dean.  If it helps you sleep at night.  Oh wait.  That’s what the women are for.”

          “I fight nightmares for a living.  I freakin’ save lives.”

          “You also seem to take a lot too.”

          “They’re monsters Sammy.”

          “Yeah.  So is Benny.”

          “Oh come on… he’s different.” Dean started to protest, but the taller Winchester turned around, more than a little pissed.

          “You didn’t seem to consider that possibility when you killed Amy Pond.”

          “Sammy-” Dean’s face hardened as he tried to reply when suddenly the air grew as icy as the conversation had become.  The temperature must have dropped at least twenty degrees in 2.56 seconds flat.  It was as if Canada’s winter weather system had suddenly descended on Central Park.  The Winchesters noticed the change immediately, and dropped all thoughts of their conversation.

          “Did you feel that?” Dean asked, immediately alert.

          “Definitely.  What do you think?  Ghost?” Sam turned in place, scanning their surroundings.

          “In the middle of Central Park?  During the daytime?” Dean asked critically.

          “Well... there’s nothing that says they CAN’T be where a bunch people are out in the sun…” Sam said, though even he didn’t fully believe it.

          “Yeah well it won’t have to worry about the sun for much longer.” Dean said, looking up.

          “Oh my god.” Sam said, voicing both their thoughts.  In place of the fluffy cumulous clouds that had present moments before, there was now a swirling vortex of darker clouds that seemed to be coming together like a hurricane.

          “Uh… we should get back to the car…” Sam said nervously.

          “No argument there.” Dean agreed.  The two took off jogging toward where the Impala was parked at the other end of the Park.  As they passed the picnic tables Sam had been scanning earlier, Dean was startled to briefly meet a piercing gaze of an odd-looking fellow in a tweed jacket and bow tie.  An inexplicable terror filled him, and he felt a sudden urge to run as fast as he could.  As they shoved past a few more people, Dean looked back.  The stranger was gone.

          As they reached the Impala, they yanked the doors open and swung themselves in.

         “Cas we could really use your help right now…” Dean prayed tensely.  Sam kept his eyes on the sky, which despite the fact it was only 2:56 P.M., had grown as dark as early evening.

          Neither of the Winchesters thought to look in the backseat.

            “*Beep*”

            Dean was briefly aware of three things before he lost consciousness: 1) an intense heat, 2) a horrible electronic noise not unlike dubstep, and 3) the familiar sound of wings.


	5. A Blade in the Water

Super **Who** Lock

 

            The street was dark and gloomy, with exactly two dim streetlights lighting the way.  The cobblestone street was slick with the afternoon rain, and the skies overhead still held the clouds responsible.  For New York at night, it was eerily quiet.  Then again, this was the 1930s.

            If there had been an onlooker to the scene, the first thing he or she would have noticed was how out of place the stranger was.  Practically bouncing on the balls of his feet and whistling a cheery tune, the Doctor was sunshine incarnate amidst the much darker setting.   It had never mattered to him what others thought.  And today especially he was far too excited to worry about the setting around him.   Too excited to care.

            Too excited to notice the flickering lights.

            It was the kind of excitement that should have been contagious.  It would have made a companion smile and shake their head.  Of course, he didn’t have anyone like that at the moment.  But that was about to change.

            Not even the fact that he had to take a two hour car trip into the city had damped his spirits.  Normally such a waste of time was unthinkable, but this was worth it to him.  Ten times over.  Plus he had that crossword to catch up on.  Well he had had it.  He had finished it an hour and forty five minutes ago.

            It had been a bit confusing, having to determine where they lived in the midst of this tangle of humanity.  But at last he had, after some struggle, triumphantly obtained their address from a startled newspaper publisher who regularly received star articles from Amy.

            Whirling in place, he came to a stop in front of a somewhat dismal looking building squeezed in like all the others.  There was a sad little attempt at a flower box in the window sill, and drapes made of a fabric that wouldn’t be in style for at least sixty years.  The Doctor grinned.  This was the place.

            For the excruciatingly long car ride he had spent many a minute contemplating just how he would open.  He had prepared a monologue for the greater part of an hour, but now he reconsidered.  There wasn’t much that needed to be said.  They would already know it all.

            ‘Hello Pond’ would do just fine he decided.  And with that final decision he strode up to the door.

            He rapped sharply on the door, but only managed four knocks before the door opened in on itself.  Slightly startled, he peeked in, seeing only a long dark hallway.  For the first time, his elation was punctured by the tiniest sliver of fear.

            “Maybe they just… forgot to lock the door tightly…” He suggested to himself, “…in the 1930s… just after organized crime syndicates can no longer profit off of illegal alcohol sales and turned to more… criminal pastimes…” He swallowed, his two hearts beating out a tarantella in his chest as he made his way down the hallway.

            “Amy?!  Rory?!  PONDS!?!... ” He called.  No one answered but he heard a slight movement deeper in the house.

            Moving quickly, sonic in hand, the Doctor opened the nearest door and scanned the room rapidly.  Nothing.   He moved across the hall and checked the next room.  Nothing again.  But there was another sound from down the hallway.

            “Hey!  Anyone there?!  THE DOCTOR’S HOME!!!” He called out in a warning tone.  Now there was a loud clatter, as something or someone was moving fast.

            The Doctor was faster.  In an instant he was around the corner to see what was there.  And it stopped his hearts.

            There on the floor, in a pool of her own blood, lay Amy Pond.

            The flickering light of another dim streetlamp cast a set of shadows to play across her deathly pale face.  Her hair, once the very fiery depiction of her personality, was now lay encircled her head as a faded halo.  Everything about the scene lacked life and color… everything sapped away by the dark blossom that grew on the front of her shirt.

            Just above Amy stood a stranger.  As he looked on, the Timelord’s eyes narrowed and adjusted, and an image made itself clear through the tears that had formed.  Brown leather jacket, army green button down, black t-shirt.  Denim jeans and hiking boots.  Five o’clock shadow and cropped light brown hair.

            A shining silver blade was in his hand, covered in blood.

            The Doctor and the stranger locked eyes for the briefest of seconds before the latter disappeared.  It didn’t matter though.  The Doctor would remember the face.

            “Doctor…?” the quietest of voices called him back to reality, and in a flash he was at his companion’s side.

            “Amy!  I’m here!  Don’t worry, I’m here!  You’re going to be all right!” the Doctor said hurriedly, his hands trembling as he scanned her wound with the sonic screwdriver and studied the readings.  They only confirmed the awful truth.  He threw the screwdriver away.

            “Is that… really you?” Amy muttered, breathing heavily.

            “Yes, yes it’s really me!  Of course it’s me, who else would it be?!” The Doctor said crossly, looking around madly as he tried to calculate what to do.  Maybe if he mortally wounded himself the regeneration…

            “It’s… too late for me…Rory…” Amy said, coughing up blood.

            “No, no it’s not too late!  I’m a doctor, remember?  I fix things just like this!” the Doctor said, trying in vain to assure both himself and Amy.  Neither bought it.  Amy closed her eyes with a slight smile as the Doctor continued to look around frantically as he held her head in his lap.

            “…Doctor…?” Amy asked.  The Doctor was jolted back to reality and he looked at her again.  He could see the light leaving her eyes.

            “Yes Pond?” He asked, his voice cracking.

            “Promise me you’ll… look after Rory…”

            “Of course, but-” the Doctor tried to protest but even while dying Amy cut him off.

            “Doc…tor…” She coughed.  He fell silent.

            “I’m… glad… you’re here.”

            “Me too Pond.  Me too.” He said, the tears coming fast and hard.  He bent his head to touch hers.

            There he sat as 'they' became only him.  Silent sobs racked the Timelord’s form until he could be silent no longer.  Seconds became minutes.  Minutes became hours.

            Finally he looked up.  His eyes were red, but they would cry no more.

            Something had stirred itself in the Timelord.  Something ancient and terrible.  Something he had locked away in favor of being loving, compassionate, and merciful.  Something he had locked away so he could be more human.

            But he was done being human now.

            Now was the time the world would see just why the Timelords were feared.


	6. Identity Theft

SuperWho **Lock**

 

            Sherlock Holmes was in a state.

            Despite the fact it was terrible quality, the stash of tea in the cabinet was decidedly too low.  As was the stack of nicotine patches on the bathroom counter.  The floor of the dingy motel room was a swamp of books, newspapers, clothing, and general rubbish.  A disturbing smell emanated from the kitchen in general, and the milk in the fridge had long ceased being a liquid.  He had a new roommate too, but he was 93% sure that it was not of the Homo sapiens classification.  It certainly didn’t do much to help with the mess.

            Since he had been conscious, the consulting detective had been crouched in the uncomfortable chair, hugging his knees, staring at the computer.  News of the outside world had always been somewhat important to Sherlock – it was where his cases lay after all.  But the first thing he had painfully realized after his suicide was the reality that when you are presumed dead, people no longer contract you for work.  No work meant two things: no money and, more importantly, nothing to keep the mind occupied.

            “I need a case.” Sherlock muttered to no one in particular.  It was just about the only thing he said these days.  That and “this tea is rubbish.”  His new roommate wasn’t one for witty conversation.  Or any conversation at all, really.

            Sighing, Sherlock altered his position to that of a normal human sitting at a desk.  His fingers whirred across the keyboard in a familiar pattern, and he soon found himself at a familiar site: Scotland Yard, online database.  _Welcome, Detective Inspector Lestrade_ flashed up on the screen, and Sherlock shared a wry grin with himself.  To be perfectly honest, it hadn’t even been a proper hacking job; Lestrade was just too predictable.  His wife’s sister’s ex-husband’s step-niece’s name.  With a zero.  A Zero.  Could it have been easier?

             With a contented smile, Sherlock settled into his favorite pastime – reading case files.  Well, it was partially his favorite pastime – and partially it was his torture.  The reports on the Scotland Yard database were final; they were those that were submitted at the end of the case.  For Sherlock, they could often become stroke-inducingly painful, as there were always several holes that he itched to explore himself.  Nonetheless, it was one of a few ways to pass the time and to keep him from experimenting with heavier drugs.

             As the consulting detective’s eyes raced across the screen, a smile broke over his features.  Lestrade had finally submitted the Thompson case.  It was about time.  That had happened, what, a month ago?  Too long.  He clicked the file and it flashed open.

             Scrolling to the bottom, high-functioning sociopath scanned the last few lines of the report for the general conclusion.  After a second or two he found what he was looking for. As always, Lestrade’s typical non-committal wording caused him headache, but soon Sherlock sat back in his chair with another sigh.  Lestrade had declared it to be a void case.  Thompson was to be examined by one of her own profession.

             To be perfectly honest, this particular case had provided the most entertainment for him in his life lately.  It simply reeked of peculiarity – an element he practically required in cases of his choice.  However, despite his disappointment in the resolution of the case, the evidence that supported Lestrade’s claim was about as solid as the wall of China.  Smith was on another continent, being filmed at the time in question.  You don’t get an alibi that concrete very often.

             Sherlock glanced at the clock.  2:56 A.M. in the morning.  He stared at it for a second and then shrugged subconsciously.  It wasn’t like he was doing anything tomorrow.  He never did anything these days.  Except order Chinese takeout and transfer money to his credit card from Mycroft’s bank account with which he could then buy more Chinese takeout.  It was a glorious existence.

             The detective scrolled upward through the report slowly, lost in thought.  He was about halfway through when something caught his eye.  A name.

_The only other witness, Dr. John Watson, a patient of Thompson’s, testifies that he was too traumatically disturbed at the time to have gotten a proper look at the suspect._

_Traumatically disturbed_.  Sherlock stared at the words for a moment or two.  Maybe ten.

             He had known, of course, that John had been a patient of Thompson’s.  It was why Lestrade had taken the case, even though it wasn’t in his department.  Sherlock had also been aware Watson was in fact, a witness to the peculiar break-in.

             What he was not aware of was this claim to being incapable of helping due to… what exactly?  Sherlock scanned the rest of the paragraph rapid-fire, but there was nothing further about John being disturbed.  The consulting detective sat back again.

             Why was John traumatically disturbed?

             If Sherlock had possessed a bit more skill in being a social human being, he would have identified the gnawing feeling in his stomach as worry.  As it was, the sociopath was labeled as such for a good reason.  He attributed the discomfort to the bad tea, and proceeded to exit out of the case report.

            With a few clicks of his mouse, Sherlock pulled up Lestrade’s official email.  He scanned the inbox, sent and trash to no avail.  The consulting detective sat disappointed, glaring at his computer as if it was the machine’s fault.

            After a second, Sherlock slowly clicked out of the website altogether.  Fingers whirring across the keyboard, the detective brought up a new site.  Lestrade’s personal email.  The password for this one was even easier – the lieutenant’s favorite dish.  _Éclair_. 

            A moment of intolerable waiting passed as the slow processing website struggled to load.  Then Sherlock was in.

            And there was what he was looking for.

            An email from John.

_Sorry I couldn’t be of more use to you, Greg.  Just wasn’t paying attention I suppose.  Let me know if I can make it up to you somehow.  God knows I have too much free time on my hands now._

_John_

           Sherlock steepled his fingers and stared at the email, analyzing it.  On the one hand, it would seem to be comforting to hear from John himself that he was just _not paying attention_.   But John was a soldier, and a soldier’s life depends on them paying attention.  If a soldier isn’t paying attention, it’s because he’s _incapable_.

           Then there was the rambling.  Watson was always short and to the point.  He didn’t talk much.  It was one of the things Sherlock distinctly liked about the army doctor.  But here he was going on about his free time.  A whole extra sentence.

           “Maybe it was just with me…” Sherlock mused to himself.  His voice was hoarse from lack of use.  With a sudden rush of contempt, Sherlock slammed his computer shut and spun out away from the desk in his chair.  The man who once saved the entirety of the U.K. from a criminal mastermind wheeled his roller chair over to the bed, grabbed the remote and turned on the TV.

           Pulling his legs up to his chest, the self-proclaimed genius began to flick through the channels dully.  He wasn’t really interested in watching the telley.  But he had to do something to occupy his mind.

_“This is Masterpiece Theate-”_

          *Click*

_“Do YOU need a new Dentist?”_

          *Click*

_“I’m Misha Collins and you’re watching-”_

          *Click*

_“In other news today, there was a peculiar incident on the set of locally filmed hit series, Supernatural.  Sources report that in the middle of filming, an unauthorized man managed to get past security, into the studio, and on set._

          Sherlock had almost clicked on when a picture flashed up.  He stopped short.

_“CW had this to say:_

_“At this moment, we do not know how the intruder got into the studio – absolutely no one saw him enter any of the entrances - but the issue is being dealt with as speak.  Tighter security measures are being taken, to insure the safety of our actors and indeed everyone involved in the show.”_

_“As for the unidentified Mr. Doe, the police escorted him off the proximity and took him down to the station to be interrogated.  As of yet, we do not know what Mr. Doe wanted on the set, but whether it was indeed the psychotic obsession Supernatural fans are known for or just an unfortunately detoured search for a bathroom, it certainly is odd just how far he made it.  One might even say it was Supernatural.  Stay tuned for more!”_

         Much to Sherlock’s annoyance, the reporter and the picture vanished from the screen to be replaced with a commercial for McDonald’s.  With a swift motion, Sherlock shut the TV off.

         He knew that face.  He had seen it before very VERY recently.

         Swiveling over to his computer, he booted it up, drumming his fingers impatiently.  At last, he successfully brought the internet browser up on the screen.  With all the speed of a professional web surfer, he typed the name and hit enter.  The results flashed up on the screen. The consulting detective barely glanced at them before he sat back again, a feeling of delight creeping over him.

         The picture the news channel had shown had been taken with a cell phone.  It was blurred and not very good quality at all.  But Sherlock had no trouble identifying the very man Thompson had accused of breaking into her house.  And in fact, he had no doubt that the TV channel would very soon be receiving at least a few hundred calls also identifying the man.

         Matt Smith was after all, the star of a TV show himself.

         Sherlock leaped up from his chair, a tingling in his hands and feet that he hadn’t felt in some time.  It was a case.  It was local.  No one here knew him.  This was Canada.

         Kicking aside some laundry on the floor, Sherlock picked up a familiar article of clothing.  His black coat.  He wondered if he should risk wearing it.  Shaking his head, he moved to the closet to hang it up.  The long black coat belonged to Sherlock Holmes, detective extraordinaire whose image was quite spread across the UK, and even here in the America’s to an extent.

         No… he had to be someone else for the time being.  But who?  It couldn’t be anyone that people would associate with him.

         The detective smiled as it hit him.

         He knew exactly who he was going to be.


	7. Shoot the Messenger

**Super** WhoLock

 

            When Sam awoke he sat up far too quickly.  Vision swimming and head pounding, he nearly collapsed into unconsciousness again.  Gradually though, his sight cleared and his headache lessened.  Soon he became aware of his surroundings.

            He was in a dim motel room – a standard Winchester setting if there was ever such a thing.  All rooms like this looked familiar to Sam, so it was impossible to tell if it was one they had actually booked before or if it was new.  However the room itself wasn’t so as important as the people in it.

            Dean was unconscious on the other twin bed, drooling slightly into the pillow.  Sam felt the briefest sense of relief he upon confirming the safety of his brother.  But Sam’s attention was quickly taken away from his sleeping brother by a certain pacing angel.

            “Cas!?” Sam said, more than slightly surprised.

            “Good to see you are well Sam.” The angel glanced up at him, nodding a quick awkwardly formal greeting, before quickly returning to his pacing and presumably his thoughts.  Sam stared at the angel for a few seconds waiting for some further explanation as to exactly how he had gotten here.  No such enlightenment was forthcoming.  Sam was uncomfortably aware of how he had never been as good as Dean when it came to conversing with the celestial being.

            “Uh… Cas, what happened?  How… why are we here?  The last thing I remember…” Sam trailed off, trying to recall the events before falling unconscious.  The trench-coated angel stopped pacing.

            “What is the last thing you remember?” Castiel asked him, suddenly looking up with a hard gaze.

            “I don’t… getting in the car maybe?” Sam said, putting a hand to his aching head.

            “You weren’t… running from anything?”

            “Uh… not that I remember.  Cas what happened?”

            The angel was silent.  He looked exceptionally troubled.

            “Ohhhhh, my head…” Dean groaned as he awoke with perfect timing.  “What happened?  I haven’t felt like this since… Cas?!?” It took the elder Winchester a moment to become aware, but when he did it was almost comical.

            “Hullo Dean.” Castiel bobbed his head in his typical greeting to Dean.  The latter looked as if he was about to call Cas out on showing up late, but he quickly shut his mouth upon noticing the difference in their surroundings.

            “Uh… what is…did I miss something?” Dean’s asked, glancing at Sam who shrugged.  “Cas?  Care to share?”

            The angel said nothing for a moment longer, before he began carefully.

            “A subspace catalyst volatile was detonated inside your car.  I managed to reach the two of you before it claimed you…”

            “Wait, what?!  Volatile?!  Like an explosive?!?!” Dean interrupted immediately.

            “Yes.  But I managed to life the two of you-”

            “WHAT ABOUT MY BABY?!”

            “…you’re…?.... I wasn’t aware you had a…”

            “MY CAR!!”

            “Dean let him finish.” Sam told his brother.  Dean looked somewhere between rage and tears.  He was certainly a little emotionally unstable.  But he did shut up, albeit in a sulking way.  Sam looked to Castiel again.

            “…as you were saying Cas?” Sam gestured for the angel to continue.  Cas looked uncertainly at Dean for a moment before continuing.

            “I am sorry I was unable to save your car Dean.  But there were only yoctoseconds until the device exploded and I thought it would be far better to save you both instead…” Cas said apologetically.

            “A freakin’ BOMB.  In my CAR!” Dean repeated, clearly angry.

            “I’m sure he means “Thanks for saving our lives” Cas.” Sam told the angel.  “So what are we looking at here?  I mean, there are plenty of people who want to kill us…”

            “That is what I am chiefly concerned about.  There may be plenty who WANT to kill you… but they opened a Subspace dimension.  Which means they didn’t want to kill you… just capture you.”

            “Uh… subspace dimension?” Sam asked, sounding more than a little lost. “I don’t think we’ve ever come across anything like that before...”

            “That’s because it’s extremely advanced magic… I’ve only ever known a few very skilled and powerful angels to use it.  It opens a rift in reality, pulling the victim into a sort of… pocket dimension for transportation purposes.  Or perhaps containment.”

            “Oookay, so… one of the God squad’s after us?” Dean summarized brusquely.

            “No I don’t think so.  It takes a very powerful angel, or a whole set of angels to create and maintain even a small subspace dimension… and…”

            “There weren’t any other angels at the scene.” Sam said realizing.  Cas nodded in confirmation.

            “I would have been aware had any celestial being been within three hundred miles.  No one was there.” The angel told them.

            “Is it possible that someone could have been flying under the radar?” Dean asked.

            “Not that I know of.”

            “Well that’s great.  Now we have another MAJOR player on the board, and he wants to KILL us.” Dean said, throwing his hands up in frustration.

            “Capture actually.” Castiel corrected him.

            “Oh right.  I’d forgotten.  That makes it so much better.” Dean said scathingly sarcastic.  But then he realized something. “Hey wait!  You say the subspace thing doesn’t kill… just capture… does that mean baby made it?”

            “Well I am not that familiar with the inner workings of subspace magic but… in theory I’d say yes.” Cas said.  Dean’s face visibly brightened.

            “Do you have any ideas who-or what-might be responsible Cas?” Sam asked the trench-coated angel, bringing the conversation back around to the important topic.  The angel looked decidedly troubled again.

            “Not… no.” He said hesitantly.  The Winchesters exchanged wary looks.

            “Cas, please do not lie to us.  We may only be a pair of humans, but you’re a terrible liar.  And we can tell.” Dean said tiredly, almost begging the angel.  Castiel fidgeted.

            “I am not lying to you.  I have no strong ideas on the identity of whoever is after you.  It’s just…” Castiel spoke nervously.

            “Yes?” Sam prompted.

            “You can tell us Cas.” Dean echoed.  Cas looked out the small dirty window of the motel room.

            “I felt a strong presence nearby, one that was watching the events unfold as a hunter may watch its prey walk into a trap.  I am nearly certain it was who opened the subspace but… it was so overwhelming… it reminded me of the archangels.”

            At this both Winchesters sat up a little more attentive.

           “Cas, all the archangels are dead.” Dean said reassuringly.

           “Or worse.” Sam added.

           “Actually… I’m afraid that’s no longer the case.” A familiar voice came from across the room.  The trio whirled around to none other than Crowley, the King of Hell himself, stumble into the main part of the room and collapse into a chair, bruised, battered, and a little bit bloody.  The Winchesters were on their feet in an instant, Dean pulling a vial of Holy Water, Sam pulling a knife.  But Crowley held up his hands.

           “Relax.  Spare me your touching greeting.  It’s lovely to see you boys, but frankly I could do without more touching from you two or really anyone at the moment.”

           “What do you want Crowley?” Dean growled.

           “Took me forever to find you guys.  Was beginning to think you’d left me out of the club.”

           “Why are you here?” Cas asked, just as pointedly blunt as Dean.

           “Right to the point, aren’t you all?  Well, haven’t you heard?  We’re allies again!” Crowley said with a cold smile.

           “No we haven’t.” Sam said coldly.  “But whatever the news, I doubt it would lead us to working with you willingly.”

           “Please.  You’re the one who killed my dog.  What have I ever done to you?” Crowley asked sardonically.

           “What are you talking about Crowley?” Cas asked, holding up a hand to both Winchesters.

           “Well it’s good to see at least someone in our group has a bit of sense left.  Although knowing you, maybe I shouldn’t speak too soon.” Crowley said readjusting his position in the chair. “Do you kids have anything good to drink around here?”

           Neither the Winchesters nor Castiel moved.

           “You know what?  Forget I asked.  What you consider good isn’t safe to imbibe anyway.  I’ll just drink away my troubles later.  Or maybe not, seeing as my future is shortening as we speak.”

           “Get to the point Crowley.” Dean said roughly.

           “Yes, yes.  The point.  Well to put it simply, a bloke walked into my office the other day.  Nice chap, proper Brit.  Or at least he was until he went and opened Lucifer’s cage.”

           The room was dead silent for a whole minute.

           “What?” Dean finally managed.

           “You heard me sunshine.  Lucifer.  Michael.  Both out and about.  And I’ve been officially impeached if you haven’t noticed.  Oh and the Apocalypse is back on.  Sort of.  There’s yet to have been a formal declaration.  But it’s about to happen any day.”

           “Why should we trust you?  Last time we met, we were enemies.” Sam pointed out.

           “Oh I don’t know… maybe because if we don’t get our act together NOW we’re going to be fried crispier than dear Lucifer himself!”

           “Had the Michael and Lucifer been freed, I would have heard…” Castiel began, but Crowley shook his head with a laugh.

           “Heard?  By the time you hear, it’ll be them knocking on your door to kill you.  Last thing I’ve heard, they’ve both decided upon a temporary ceasefire until they’ve done away with all who stopped the last apocalypse.”

           “Revenge isn’t the angel style…” Castiel said thoughtfully.

           “But efficiency is.  When are you morons going to accept this is happening?  Haven’t you already experienced a slight problem of your own?!” Crowley said exasperatedly.  At this Castiel stiffened.  His face was contorted as if his mind was racing on the inside.

           “…I have to go.” The angel, said momentarily.  Both Winchesters stood immediately.

           “Cas wait, we shouldn’t make any hasty plans.” Sam said cautiously.

           “Let’s just talk about this.  We should make a plan together.” Dean pleaded.

           “We need intel to make a plan.  And… there’s something I have to look into.” Castiel said stiffly.  “I promise I’ll be back shortly.”

           Then the angel vanished.

           The Winchesters stood there lost for a moment, as if it was finally sinking in that one of their worst fears was coming to pass.  Again.  They were back in wartime all over again.

           “Well… we beat this once.  We should be able to do it again.” Sam said confidently.  Dean gave him an incredulous look. 

           “Sammy, all the repercussions of that ‘victory’ still haunt us to this day!”

           “We’ll just have to deal with it.  That’s what we do.” Sam argued.

           “Hate to interrupt your soulful bonding moment, but I’m afraid things are not exactly the same this time.  We have… how should I put it?  An even bigger concern on our hands.  They make Lucifer and Michael fight look like an insignificant squabble.” Crowley produced a file from his jacket and handed it to Sam.

           “Doctor…Who?” Sam read the file label, before looking up at Crowley again.

           “Hell if I know.  It’s one of the best kept secrets around, frankly.  Neither the angels nor the demons even have a clue this guy exists.  But they’re about to get a sharp wake up call, and it won’t be pleasant.”

           “What do you mean by that?” Dean asked.

           “All in good time cupcake.  At the moment I have a question for you: How do you boys feel about aliens?”

**. . .**

            “I still can’t believe you were an FBI agent under Nixon.” Sam said, shaking his head.  Dean looked at him.

            “That entire story and THAT’S what you have problems with?  What about the fact there have been freakin’ aliens that we forget every time we look away!?!  There could be one in this room right now!” Dean said, his voice reaching an unusual pitch.

            “The Silence aren’t around anymore sweetheart.  We took care of them.  What IS around is the Doctor – and another one like him.”

            “You don’t have much information about him here…” Sam noted, skimming through the file again. “Most of the time it just seems like you’re crushing on him.”

            “All part of the cover, Moose.  But most of that ‘crushing’ is true by the way.  His intellect far surpasses any processing power you two or your feathered friend possess.  That alone is reason enough to be wary.”

            “What about this ‘blue box’ this T-A-R-D-I-S?” Dean asked, glancing at one of the many papers from the file.

            “Doesn’t look like much does it?  But it was incredible.  I tried to get down as much as possible, afterward, but I do believe there were many more rooms.”

            “A spaceship… looks more like a porta-potty.” Dean said critically “Still, the drawings of the inside look… a bit space age.”

            “There’s one thing I don’t get…” Sam interrupted. “If he can travel through time and space at the push of a few buttons… why doesn’t he just undo everything he doesn’t like?  Why doesn’t he just go back in time and try to kill our mother before we’re born or something?”

            “Maybe he never watched the Terminator?  Maybe too many people were already trying to kill your mother?” Crowley suggested. “I don’t know.  I overheard one of his friends saying there are certain points in time that can’t be rewritten, so we’ll have to assume for now we’re safe.  As an added bonus, as far as I could tell, he knew next to nothing about my true nature, or indeed any of the darker magic side of the world.  He was strictly into aliens.”

            “That’s another thing…” Dean said, “How come none of you demons or the angels caught on to the whole aliens-are-real bit?”

            “Up until you morons showed up, the angels were quite removed from the world.  Even then when they did show up, it was always on specific orders for interaction with us or humans.  The Doctor’s style, as far as I can tell, has always been to dance around the edges of history.  Because he was not the cause of any catastrophic problem, the storm trooper angels were not sent to ‘deal’ with him.  And the way he works… well, he tends to stick with the resources his surroundings supply him – he doesn’t flash around a bunch of fancy powers.  In that way, from a distance, he might look very human to you or me or a bunch of dimwitted feather heads.  As for us demons, well we really only associated with the scum of humanity when we were called or were lucky enough to escape the Pit.  In the end if you want to get technical, it’s all perspective.  We call it magic, they call it Science.  Half the creatures you hunt could have alien origins – their magic could be advanced telepathic science that they themselves don’t quite understand the technicalities of it.  The point it… we’re wasting time discussing this.” Crowley explained tersely.

           “Well how exactly are we supposed to proceed?  After all your crushing, all we’ve learned is how amazing and probably undefeatable this guy is.  Is there even a way to kill him?  You note here that he just ‘regenerates’ when you try to kill him.” Dean mentioned, perusing another page of the file.

           “Kill him?  Why would we want to kill him???” Crowley asked, as if the question was ridiculous.

           “Uh… he tried to kill us first?  He let Lucifer and Michael out…?  Started the apocalypse again?” Sam listed the things on his fingers.

           “No, no, no.  The Doctor is about as ‘good guy’ as they come.  Almost made me vomit on my nice shoes.  Certainly more of a hero than you ridiculous facsimiles. No, the guy who let Michael and Lucifer out, I’d never seen before in my life.  But his presence felt a whole lot like the Doctor’s.  It’s my guess they’re of the same kind, which leads to my next assumption that this new guy is just as dangerous, if not worse with the lack of moral restraint.”

           “But this picture…” Dean pointed to a black and white photograph of Crowley, the Ponds, River, and the Doctor all together smiling for a camera.  “That’s definitely the guy I saw in Central Park.  Right before our car exploded.”

           “Maybe you did something to tick him off?” Crowley suggested.  “Whatever it was, he tried to capture you alive before your feathered friend saved you… he has your car on his ship.”

           “That’s what Cas said.” Sam agreed.  But Dean perked up.

           “He has my car on his ship??  How do you know that?”

           Crowley reached into a back pocket and produced a familiar coin and Dean groaned.

           “You still haven’t found the other sunshine.  I always know where you two are as long as you take the car.  On the bright side, we can now track our alien friend and enlist his help.”

           “I dunno… he certainly didn’t seem too friendly when I saw him.” Dean said uncertainly.

           “Well we frankly don’t have time to be shy about it.” Crowley said, standing and moving towards the door “And do you want your car back or not?”


	8. The One that Got Away

Super **Who** Lock

 

            Empty.  The car was empty.

            The Doctor shut the door to the ’67 Impala with a little more force than necessary, before stalking out of the room.  He had seen the two denim-clad figures get in the car, and then the car vanish from sight as the subspace detonator captured it.  But now, here… they were gone.  They had escaped.

            “Usually I’m the one running away…” The Doctor muttered to himself, as he came back into the main console room.  He flipped a few switches.  An image flashed up on the screen.  Amy Pond’s murderer.

            “That certainly was you in the park… unless I’m going blind and deaf… but what about your wings?” The Doctor said musing.  Though the burn in his chest was still there, the enthusiasm had started to die down.  He had never been the hunter before.  It didn’t feel right.

            When the murderer had fled, the Doctor had instantly taken measurements with the sonic to discern where he had fled too.  To his slight surprise, the most prominent reading was that of some sort of time residue, foreign, but nothing he couldn’t track.  Once he was back in the twenty-first century, however, the trail stopped cold, leaving him back in Central Park.  Cold that is, until the murderer and another plaid-decked fellow walked right in front of him, arguing about the death of Amy Pond.

            Had he been a few centuries younger he might have killed them on the spot.  But he told himself he’d plan something better.  That he could just capture them alive with a subspace dimensional transfer.

            Apparently not.

           “It’s time to find out more about you two...” The Doctor told the image of Dean, flipping a few switches to set the TARDIS on standby.  The engines hummed softly before growing quiet.

           The car was a story all by itself.  The Doctor had always liked the model, a ’67 Impala.  But this particular one was more than just a car.  It was like a base of operations, an armory, and a home all rolled into one.  In the glove box the Timelord found at least fifteen different pairs of identification, ranging from FBI to CDC.  The backseat held duffel bags of clothes and an assortment of rubbish left over from fast food stops.  The license plate was a dead end, registered to a nonexistent citizen who happened to have a patchwork name of two lesser rock stars, deceased at least forty years, whose home address turned out to be a bar.  And he didn’t even want to mention the trunk.

           The one clue that had been left behind was a tattered diary, which he had found along with the fake IDs in the glove box.  It was property of one John Winchester.  The Doctor took it along with several of the other things back to the main compartment to look over.

           The contents of the diary were quite unusual.

          “Well either this whole family is a bunch of crazies, or Word-based science has inspired a whole underground.  ‘Witchcraft’.  I should have known the Carrionites weren’t the end of it.” the Doctor said thoughtfully as he scanned the contents.

           Sam and Dean.  His two denim-clad suspects, apparently.  They were only boys in the book at some parts.

          “All grown up and lethal.  Their father would be proud.  Did it ever occur to any of these people that the creatures they were hunting had just as much of a right to exist as they did?” the Doctor said throwing the book down disgusted.  He stared at it moodily for a moment before snatching it up again.

          “Then again… most of these species are the kind that finds humanity delectable…and they’re rather feral…” He muttered flicking through the pages. “I guess this hunting could be qualified as self-defense… or defending humanity I suppose… in a technical court of Galactic Law…”

          The Timelord set the book down again with a sigh, rubbing his eyes.  It sounded more like his line of work if it was phrased like that.  Saving people.  Defending humanity.  That equated to heroic, not evil.  Once again he got the feeling that something about this whole scenario was wrong.

          “But why Amy then?” the Doctor frustratedly asked no one in particular.  “How was she a monster?”

          It was at that precise moment however, that suddenly the opening tunes to a particularly fast-paced Stevie Ray Vaughan echoed loudly throughout the TARDIS.  Almost as an afterthought, the ship’s intruder alarm likewise went off.  The Doctor looked up startled, just in time for the entire ship to shudder compulsively.  Another alarm, the dimensional rip detector went off.  Someone was opening a dimensional portal inside the TARDIS.

          The Doctor, after his brief moment of shock, quickly pulled a few knobs and flipped several switches on the dashboard.  Soon pictures of a multitude of rooms came up on the monitor.

          There, in the bottom left corner, the tail end of a familiar car was vanishing into where previously a wall had been.

          The Doctor swore in Gallifreyan.

          “How did he get in here?!” The Timelord asked his ship loudly as he fired it up.  No one could get in when the door was locked.  Not even a professional pick lock!  Not unless the ship wanted…?

          “Nevermind.  He’s not getting away.” the Doctor said with a set smile.  The view from the outside cameras appeared on the main screen, and the timelord settled into the familiar controls.  The TARDIS rose obediently off the ground and began turning, slowly at first, until it became a whirling storm of blue, taking off after the fast-departing black car.

          It was time for a good old-fashioned car chase.


	9. A Study in Smith

SuperWho **Lock**

 

            “I’m sorry Detective Anderson.  All I know is that he made it onto the set in the middle of a scene.  He was escorted out shortly after by security.  That’s really all I know.”

            “Indeed.  Well I suppose it’s not entirely your fault you’re unobservant.  Could be upbringing or maybe a dash of genetics.  At any rate, you won’t be of any further use to me.  Carry on.”

            “Uh… thanks?”      

            For a moment, Sherlock watched the young PA scurry back to his work.  Then he jolted himself from his thoughts and turned to leave.

            It was good to be out of the cramped motel room, but the latest excursion was beginning to make Sherlock feel worse than he had inside his motel.  At least there he had a firm belief in his abilities.  Now he was on the field again… well one might as well say that this particular field was about as rocky as the American’s Grand Canyon.  There were so many things that didn’t add up, it might as well be labeled a calculus problem.

            “Detective Anderson?” a voice inquired at the detective’s shoulder.  Sherlock mentally flinched slightly.  At first picking the name Anderson had seemed like such a good idea.  Now though…

            “Yes what is it?” he asked impatiently.  However Sherlock instantly lost his annoyance in favor of attentiveness, as it was a security guard who had returned with a colleague bearing more information.

            “Hello Mr. Anderson.  Name’s Johnson.  It’s a real pleasure, sir.  Always wanted to meet a real investigator.” The second security officer extended a hand.  Sherlock didn’t take it.

            “Yes, yes.  Charmed I’m sure.  Judging by your over enthusiastic features, you have something more than your friend do you?”

            “Uh… yes sir.  Yes, I do.  It was my watch when the lousy good for nothin’ got in.” Johnson said.  It was obvious he was still angry about Smith’s intrusion.

            “Wait, you’re telling me you’re the one who let him slip by in the first place?  Exactly why am I listening to YOU of all people for observations?  Clearly you aren’t exactly the most reliable person in that area of expertise.” Sherlock said disdainfully.

            “Well, uh, that’s just it sir.  I’ve never been anything less than 100% on the job.  I was watching just the same as every other day.  He didn’t get past me.  He must have come in another way.  That or he has some sort of invisibility cloak.  That’s the only way he could have gotten past me.  If you find something like that, I’d sure like to hear of it.”

            “Of course you do.  I’d be willing to bet your job is also slightly on the line as well, isn’t it?” Sherlock said condescendingly.

            “Uh, something like that sir.”

            “It’s always something like that.  Well I’m afraid you’ve been just about as much use as everyone else on this regrettable continent.  Thank you for wasting my time…” the detective turned to leave when the security guard stayed him.

            “Hold up a second sir, there’s more.  You should know that when he showed up he was real chatty with one of the actors.  Mr. Sheppard I think it was.”

            “Indeed?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows arching.

            “Sure as the Pope’s Catholic.  As I was escortin’ the intruder off the premises he said something like, ‘I’ll find you later!’.”

            “You escorted Smith off the premises?  Did he say anything else?” Sherlock asked sharply.

            “Well he seemed a bit disoriented to tell the truth.  Asked me where we were.  He was a bit surprised to find out we were in Canada.  Then…” Johnson trailed off.

            “What?” the consulting detective prompted impatiently.

            “Well, sir, he asked WHEN we were.  He must have been rather high or off it, wasn’t he?  But he didn’t seem like he was on anything… he was perfectly lucid.  In that way anyway.”

            Sherlock considered these facts momentarily.  They were more than a little strange.

            “Is that all there is?”

            “’fraid so Inspector.”

            “Thank you for all your information, Mr. Johnson.  You have been… unforeseeably helpful.”

            “Glad to have helped… I think…” the Security guard gave the detective one last look before he wandered off again, trying to process whether he had just been complimented or not.

            After another trip round the crime scene, Sherlock left the studio, thoughts whirling.  Catching the bus was more difficult than the detective had suspected.  They didn’t stop when you raised a hand as the cabs did in London.  Still, after four tries he managed to secure a ride to the police station.  Unfortunately it would take near an hour, seeing as the bus did actually stop at every stop for people to get on and off.  Sherlock reflected he might just end up killing the bus driver in his irritation.  At least then he’d get a quicker ride to the station. 

 _Still,_ the detective thought to himself as he steepled his fingers, long transit gave him time to think.  And had never had a case that needed more thinking.  Carefully he reviewed the facts in his mind’s eye.

            First of all, Smith had been reportedly in New York on a tour, the day before the intrusion had occurred.  There were only a couple of flights that would have gotten him to this corner of Canada in time for him to commit the crime, and after checking ALL of them, Sherlock still had nothing.  Yet he was sure that it was Smith.  The consulting detective had flashed around a much clearer picture of the actor for several in the studio, and they had all agreed it was him.

            Next there was motive.  Absolutely nothing.  There wasn’t really a crime either.  According to the witnesses, including several security guards, a couple PAs, and one decidedly moronic actor by the name of Jared Padalecki, Mr. Matt Smith had been just confused about appearing on set as they had been surprised by his arrival.  The security guards confirmed that he had left quite willingly as well.

            Lastly, there was exactly one door into the particular studio they had been filming, and it was guarded by an around the clock camera at night, and a security guard during the day.

            The last point didn’t bother Sherlock too much.  Camera feeds could be looped, guards could be avoided or paid off.  Smith could have waited in a darkened corner of the studio until his chosen time.

            But the unusualness of it all… was simply too unusual.  The fact there had been no witnesses up until Smith was on camera.  The way he had practically infiltrated the studio.  Sherlock’s mind clicked piece after piece into a jigsaw puzzle that looked like a Picasso painting.  The one thing he was sure of was that he didn’t believe in coincidences.  And as such, everything fit together too perfectly to leave it at that; to pull off something like this, everything must have been planned out to the detail.  And plans of this scale designed to do nothing at all pointed to one thing:

            Moriarty was ringing.


	10. Murphy was Right

**Super** WhoLock

 

            “You’re kidding me.  That’s it?” Dean asked incredulously, nodding to the blue Police Box parked innocently under a tree next to a park bench.

            “It’s…” Sam started to say something but Crowley cut him off.

            “Less than you expected?  Well, that’s the same thought I had about you two, first time we met.” Crowley said nonchalantly.  “Only difference is this box fulfills expectations and more given the time.  So stow your criticism until you’ve seen what it can do.”

            The Winchesters exchanged unconvinced glances.

           “So what’s the plan?” Dean asked the demon.

           “Plan?  Do we need one?  This is one of the good guys we’re talking about.  If you’re on the same side, you’re all decidedly civil.” Crowley said waving a hand airily. “You want a plan?  Go and knock on his door and say, ‘Hello, I’m sorry for pissing you off somehow.  Let’s be friends so we don’t all die later on.’”

           “I’m not so sure…” Sam started, eyeing the TARDIS warily. “He did put a bomb in our car instead of talking to us…” but the Crowley suddenly held up a hand stopping him.  The demon suddenly looked very tense.

           “What is it?” Dean asked quickly, catching on something was wrong.

           “Demons.” Crowley said quietly, tilting his head slightly as if he could sense them better that way.

           “What?  How many?” Sam asked, looking around quickly.

           “Too many.” Crowley said, looking angry and nervous at the same time.  “They probably tracked me here.  They’ve been following me since…” the demon trailed off frowning.

           “They’re closing in fast.  Damn… Okay listen, new plan: I’ll try to draw them off.  You get the alien.”

           “But-” Sam started.

           “No time to argue Moose.  JUST DO IT.” Crowley said heatedly, before vanishing from the spot.

           The Winchesters watched the spot where he vanished for a second, before turning to each other.

           “New plan?” Sam asked his brother with a raised eyebrow.

           “Yeah.  New plan is I’m getting my car back.” Dean said with a serious look in his eye as he took off for the box.

           “That’s almost as bad as Crowley’s.” Sam muttered.

            The Winchesters approached the blue box warily.  Neither could see any cameras or surveillance equipment, but then again… aliens…

            Though Dean had been back in time on several occasions, he had never gone back in time in the UK.  Neither of the Winchesters had ever seen a police box before, and they both stopped, intrigued by the sign.

           “Well… it does say ‘free for use of public’…” Dean nodded to the sign, looking at Sam.  The younger Winchester rolled his eyes.

            “Let’s just get in out as quickly as possible.  We are so out of our league here it’s not even funny.”

            “Alright, alright.  Don’t rush me.” Dean said testily.  Producing a slim leather sleeve case, he proceeded to examine the lock on the ancient and new blue wooden door.  The elder Winchester then selected two tools from his case and began to pick the lock.  After a moment there was a small click.  Satisfied, Dean pulled out his lock pick and pulled the door.  It didn’t budge.

            “Maybe you locked it instead of unlocking it?” Sam suggested.

            “Don’t be stupid Sammy.” Dean said with a scowl.  Turning back to the door he stared at it for a second thinking.  Then, on impulse, he reached forward and pushed the door.  It swung inward.

            “Wow.  Misleading sign.” Sam noted.  Dean gave him a look that mostly translated to, “Please shut up.” Then he turned and headed inside, Sam following close behind.

            It was of course, like nothing they had ever seen before.

            “Oh my god.” Sam whispered, not able to help himself.  For a moment both Winchesters simply stared at their surroundings, taking it in.  The curved room, the platform, the computer.  Everything was surreal.  Strange yet beautiful.

            “It’s… really space age…” was all Dean could manage.  Sam vaguely nodded, before something caught his eye.

            “Dean!” Sam whispered urgently, nodding at the console.  Upon following his direction, Dean saw what he was pointing out.

            There, sitting in some sort of chair with his feet up, was a face the two Winchesters had learned to recognize.  The alien.  The Doctor.  His jacket was off, hanging folded over a nearby railing.  He wore a striped shirt and suspenders, a bowtie and brown leather dress shoes.  On his nose perched a pair of old reading glasses.  The guy looked rather normal and rather peculiar all at once; it was hard to believe he was the centuries old lord of time Crowley described him to be. At the moment however, the more concerning thing to the Winchesters was the familiar book in his hands.

            “Is that…?” Sam asked silently.  Dean nodded, feeling something burn inside him as he identified his Dad’s journal.

            “Forget the journal for now.  Let’s find baby.” Dean whispered to his brother.  Sam hesitated, but eventually nodded in agreement.

            Keeping their eyes on the curious alien, the Winchester’s moved around underneath the platform to an arched doorway.  Slipping through, they soon found themselves in a network of passageways and rooms that could only be described as a labyrinth.  Going from room to room was equally disorienting as it was fascinating.  Among those that they stumbled into, there was a library, a swimming pool, a bowling alley, an aquarium, a closet, and even a room dedicated entirely to the making of Swiss cheese. 

           “It’s a good thing we didn’t split up, or we might never have seen each other again.” Sam muttered to Dean as he closed the door to kitchen.

           “How does he even find his way to anything?  I’m actually 256% sure the bowling alley was back down the hallway, across from the library!” Dean said, gesturing to the bowling alley through the door he had just opened.

           “Hey Dean come see this.” Sam called, ignoring Dean’s comment.  Grumbling, Dean shut the door to the bowling alley and followed the sound of Sam’s voice.  As he rounded the corner through the door, he found his brother in a new room with nothing in it except a multitude of framed pictures hanging on the four walls.  Each picture held a person, or sometimes the Doctor with a person, or group of people.

           “Who are they?” Sam asked no one in particular.

            “Friends maybe?” Dean guessed.  Looking closer, the seasoned hunter saw that each frame also had a small metal name plate.  This particular picture, a middle-aged woman with a younger boy, was labeled Sarah Jane and Luke Smith.

            “Hey look at this.” Sam called his brother over yet again.  The younger Winchester pointed out to Dean a particular picture with a smiling red-head.  The label read Amy Pond.

            “Huh.  Amy Pond.  That’s a weird coincidence.” Dean said.  He studied the woman in the picture.  It definitely wasn’t the Amy he and Sam had tangled with.

            “This one’s familiar.” Sam said, gesturing to another picture.  It was the same picture Crowley had shown them before, of him, the Doctor, and two others, one of which Dean now recognized as ‘Amy Pond’.  This picture read Canton Delaware & the Ponds.

            “Well I guess that means Crowley was telling the truth.  At least partially.” Dean said looking at the picture.

            “I wonder… why did he risk his neck helping these people?” Sam thought out loud.  He’d never seen Crowley’s features in a smile as genuine as in the picture.  It made him shiver.

            “Who knows?  Maybe he figured it was in his best interest to save the world.  You know how Crowley operates.  He’s only got two settings:  Survival and Profit.” Dean said shrugging.  “Come on, we still need to find the car.”  Sam looked at the picture for a second longer before following his brother.

            After stumbling through a few more rooms, the Winchesters finally came to a promising door with a sign labeling it: “The Garage”.  As Dean enthusiastically pushed through the door, he was rewarded with a sight that lifted his spirits through the roof.  The Impala, without a scratch, sat gleaming in the center of this wider room.

            “Ahhh, there she is.  Baby looks as good as new!” Dean leapt over the railing and strode over to his car to run a hand along the hood.

            “How are we supposed to get it out of here?” Sam asked critically, looking around.

            “That part of the plan was mainly covered by the word ‘Improvisation’.” Dean said, glancing at his brother before turning back to his precious vehicle.  Sam rolled his eyes and moved around the edge of the car to reach a panel of various controls.  He examined it, looking for a solution to their problem.  There was a promising red button labeled, “Open Garage”.  Sam pressed it experimentally, but quickly an error light flashed.  “No Space Selected”.  Confused, Sam looked at the panel and found a selection of switches.  Glancing back at the Impala, he saw it was sitting in Parking Space #3.  He flipped Switch 3 and pressed the red button again.

            Instantly with a buzzer the lights darkened and a red scan began to sweep across Parking Space #3.  Dean barely jumped back in time, avoiding the red light.  As soon as the beam of light finished its journey across the car’s surface, the ship shuddered, and the walls began to rotate vertically all around them, as if the ground was the only thing solid in a rotating chamber.

            “Get in the car!” Sam shouted to a very confused Dean.  Without too much argument Dean, did so and hurriedly turned the key.  As the car started, the sound system also turned itself on, picking up where it had left off.  Stevie Ray Vaughan.  Very loud.  Sam jumped into the shotgun seat as the walls stopped rotating.  In front of them was now a familiar set of double doors – the very first pair they had come through when entering the phone box; but they were now on their sides – horizontal.  As the ship shuddered again, the doors opened with a snap to reveal the outside world.

            “Drive!!!” Sam yelled to Dean, who, though wide eyed, complied.  With a squeal tires, they were soon through the doors onto a field of grass.

            “Where the hell are we?!” Dean asked Sam incredulously.  Sam had no answer for him.  When they had boarded they had been in Central Park.  Now they seemed to be in the middle of nowhere.

            Glancing in the rear view mirror rewarded Dean with a lurching feeling in his gut.  The TARDIS, which apparently had been entirely lain on its side, was now rising off the ground and righting itself.  It began to turn in an exceptionally ominous fashion, before hurtling after them.

            “WHAT THE HELL?!?!” Dean yelled in disbelief, trying to glance at the rear view mirror and drive at the same time.  Sam looked equally dumbfounded.

            “DAMNIT CROWLEY YOU DIDN’T SAY IT COULD FLY!!!” Dean shouted in frustration.

            “Uh… you may want to step on it Dean, he’s gaining!” Sam said worriedly, turned around in his seat to keep eyes on their pursuer.

            “I’m going as fast as I can!!!” Dean shouted back.  With a sudden impulse, Dean turned the steering wheel hard, and the car turned violently, wheels trying to grasp dirt unsuccessfully.  The maneuver worked somewhat successfully though, as the TARDIS shot past them on the Left.  Shifting gears, Dean took off again, heading directly towards an old wooden fence that lined the field.  Beyond the fence was a road and thick woods on the other side of it.

            “I hate to say it, but the box turns better than your car.” Sam told Dean, watching as the TARDIS got back on track remarkably quickly.

            “Yeah well it’s a freakin’ SPACE SHIP!!!  What do you expect?!  Brace yourself!” Dean said irritably.  Both Winchesters steadied themselves as if it was a regular thing and the Impala smashed through the wooden fence and turned, tires screeching on the road.

            The TARDIS was much closer now, and still gaining.  Even over the music, the Winchesters could hear the whirlwind turning sound it made.

            “He’s on your tail!!” Sam cried urgently to Dean.

            “What do you want ME to do about it?!?!?!!?” Dean yelled back.  As he glanced to his back, he nearly had a heart attack.  The blue box had not only closed the distance, but it was pulling up beside them.

            **_WHAM_**

            With a horrible crunching sound, the blue box rammed into the side of the Impala, before pulling away again.

            “Is he trying to run us off the freakin’ road?!?!” Dean asked incredulously glancing sideways.

            **_WHAM_**

            The box struck the car again, despite Dean’s attempts to swerve out of the way.

            “DAMNIT I JUST PUT A NEW COAT OF PAINT ON HER!!!” Dean yelled out the now broken window.

            “Dean look out he’s coming again!” Sam pointed out.  Indeed the blue box was swerving in again.  On impulse Dean slammed on the brakes.  The TARDIS shot past them into the heavy woods.  The Winchesters could hear it snapping trees as it went.  Dean put the car in gear again and the Impala shot forward.

            As they put distance between and the spot where the TARDIS vanished, they could no longer hear its telltale whirring sound or trees snapping.  Sam finally shut off the music so they could listen.  There was nothing except the steady growl of the engine.

            “Did we lose him?” Dean asked hopefully.  As if on cue, the TARDIS burst out of the trees in front of them, and Dean swerved violently, swearing.  He barely managed to stay on the road.

            “He’s turning again.  We have maybe a fifty meter lead now, but he’s bound to catch up again.” Sam informed Dean.

            “Dammit.  What now?!  Cas we could really use your help here!!!” Dean shouted desperately.

            “He’s closing fast.” Sam said nervously.

            “CAS!” Dean yelled.  For a moment there was nothing.  Then-

            “My god, I swear.  I leave you boys alone for five minutes…”

            “CROWLEY!” Both Winchesters yelled at the demon.  He held up his hands in defense and disappeared.

            “He’s behind us now!” Sam said to Dean.  Dean glanced out the rear view mirror and saw the demon had re-appeared on the road directly behind them.

            “DOCTOR!!!!” Crowley yelled, standing defiantly in the middle of the road.  Just like that, the flying blue box stopped on a dime, feet from where the demon stood.

            Torn between the desire to put distance between them and the alien, and the desire to hear what was being said, Dean finally let the latter win and he slammed on the brakes again, swinging the car around in a 180 to face the hovering box.

            “DOCTOR I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE!” Crowley yelled again to the unresponsive hovering box.  There was a moment of silence in which the only sound that could be heard was the idling engine of the Impala.  Then the door of the blue box was wrenched open from the inside.

            “Canton?!” The Doctor asked squinting, genuinely confused.

            “Long time no see Doctor.” Crowley said, nodding a greeting.

            “How are you…? How did you… Where did you come from?!” The Doctor tried to phrase his questions but Crowley stopped him.

            “It’s a long story.  I’m afraid I... wasn’t entirely honest with you during our first meeting.” Crowley said in his apologetic but not really way.

            “Come again?” The Doctor asked stepping out of his ship and approaching Crowley, eyes narrowed.

            “Well, you knew me as an undercover member of the Secret Service, right?  Well, let’s just say I was actually undercover as an undercover member of the Secret Service.”

            “I don’t follow…” The Doctor said, coming up close to Crowley, eyes still narrowed suspiciously.  Crowley rolled his eyes, deciding it was time to abandon subtlety.

           “I’m a demon.  Always have been.” He said flat-out.

           The Doctor’s eyes shot wide open in a shock so obvious that even the Winchesters could see it on his face fifty yards away.  Silence reigned for a painful moment.

           “No.  That’s not possible.  I would have picked it up.” The Doctor said, stepping backwards.

           “Well you didn’t.” Crowley said tersely.  “But that’s not the reason I’m here.  We don’t have much time, and there are far FAR more important things to worry about starting with-”

            What the demon intended to say was never heard however, for at that exact moment something huge, black, and cube-shaped smashed down like a sprung trap on both the Doctor and Crowley.

            Shocked, the Winchesters sat there for a second, not quite believing their eyes.  Then they scrambled to get out of their car.

            It was a huge black stone cube, made out of who knows what.  The sides had a strange patterned circular formation of grooves carved into it.  As they approached it, the last of an eerie green light seemed to be fading from the pattern.

           “Well.  That was remarkably easy.” A wry voice sounded.  The Winchesters whirled around to find the source.

           The sight they were greeted with veritably drained every good feeling from their souls.

           “I do hope it caught the alien securely like it’s supposed to.” Lucifer said, eyeing the cube as he strolled forward.  As he reached the massive stone formation, he ran a hand along it and bent down to what appeared to be a growing puddle of blood running out from under the giant box.

           With a dainty finger, the devil swabbed a finger in the blood and stuck it in his mouth.

          “Hm.  It would appear it did crush our dear friend Crowley.  How unfortunate.  I guess I’ll have to hunt him down later.  Slime like him always escape somehow.” Lucifer shot a knowing glance at the Winchesters, both of whom hadn’t moved.

          “It’s good to see you again Sam.  We really missed you after you left the cage…” He said to Sam with a sadistically warm smile.  “Though I heard you had your own personalized me to hang around anyway… really touching actually.  I didn’t think you would miss me that much too.  We must have something special.”

          “Go to Hell.” Sam said stiffly, almost as if he was in pain.

          “Already been there actually.  You’d be surprised how quickly everyone abandoned Crowley’s bandwagon when I returned.  Still popped a few heads though.  Just to, you know, get back in the feel of things.”

         “So what?  Is the apocalypse officially back on now?  Why are you wasting your time here?” Dean asked directly, done with the polite conversation.

         “Why yes.  Yes it is Dean.  I have to say I’m surprised to see you in such good shape… the way I last left you… but then you have always had unusual good luck…” Satan said smiling pleasantly at Dean.  Dean shivered subconsciously.

         “But I’m afraid that good luck, or at least your feathered portion of it, is about to be cut short.  You see, when we were released Michael and I set up a sort of arrangement.  We are brothers after all… we can compromise.  The apocalypse is going to be back on schedule very shortly, but first we have to make sure it CAN happen.” Lucifer informed the Winchesters, while producing a bottle filled with a red substance.

         “First on my particular to-do list was dealing with this guy.  Apparently he has a tendency to stop the world from ending… the charming guy who released us was kind enough to warn us about him, AND supply the special box for his capture.” He gestured to the giant stone cube.

         “As for this,” the devil lifted the mixture for the Winchesters to see, “Well I have to confess, ever since I got back I’ve been a little bit OBSSESSED with hearing what you two had been up too… an Angel civil war!  Really?  I bet that was FUN.  But to stay on topic, I happened to hear from fairly reliable sources about Balthazar’s neat little trick to send you two away… and well I was just SOLD!  A dimension with no magic that you can’t escape from without outside help.  Could there be a better place to send all your problems?” Satan asked the two brothers smiling.  He then turned and began to draw the familiar symbol on the side of the cube.

         Silence reigned for a minute as the devil continued to finger paint with blood on the side of the giant black rock box.

        “You know… if I were you… I’d take this time to get a head start.” Lucifer mentioned mildly.  “Killing you is next on my to-do list.”

        The Winchesters needed no further encouragement.  In seconds they were in their car and disappearing down the road.  Lucifer watched them go with a smile.

        “This is really just turning out to be a great day.” He said to no one in particular.  And with another smile, he turned and rammed his palm into the symbol on the giant black cube, activating the spell.

        In a flash the cube was gone, leaving the devil standing alone on a deserted country road.  Well, not quite alone.  Fishing in his pocket he produced a cellphone.  He pressed a number and held it to his ear.

        “It’s the devil.  Your friend is no longer in the picture.” Lucifer said into the phone.  He waited for a moment, and then spoke again.

        “To be honest, he didn’t put up much at all… but I suppose we had the ‘element of surprise’ and all.” He paused again.

        “Yes quite.  Oh and one more thing: I do believe I managed to get something to repay you for your services.  A rather unique gift.”

        The devil turned around to where the TARDIS was hovering, a few feet away.

        “I’m sure you’ll like it.”


	11. A Whole New World

Super **Who** Lock

            It was dark.

            And it was silent.

            Inside the Pandorica, the setting was indescribable without the use of those two adjectives.  The combination resulted in a sort of void with neither beginning nor end, an emptiness that filled the prison and completely engulfed the imprisoned.  It was the kind of emptiness that absorbed every noise, every plea, every everything that was extended into it.  It was almost as if nothing more was permitted to exist beyond the dark and the silence.

            It was enough to drive any man mad.  Arguably fortunate however, the Time Lord in question was already quite mad.  He was therefore, in no danger.

            As he came to full awareness of his surroundings, the Pandorica woke up around him, responding to his brain activity.  The eerie green glow crept from the corners of the space and grew to fill the prison, banishing the dark that had only moments before been so endless.

            It took the Time Lord a second to register his surroundings.  First he tensed and inadvertently strained against the bars holding his arms.  Then he relaxed and looked around, half alarmed, half curious.  Finally he sat back again resignedly, reviewing just what he remembered.

            “Well.  I suppose I’ve woken up in worse situations.” The Doctor joked to the unresponsive prison.  The smile died on his face as he stared off into space, thinking.  However, the very effort caused a sharp pain to pierce the inside of his skull.

            “Ohhhhh my head… something about that confrontation went decidedly wrong.” The Doctor muttered to himself, as he leaned forward to rest his head on his manacled arms.

            “You’re telling me.”

            The Doctor froze.  Something was not quite right.

            Those words had come from his mouth.

            Had he just… replied to himself?

            “No.  You’re not that crazy.  Not yet.” It was his mouth that spoke the words again, but this time, being fully aware, the Doctor heard, inside his head, a different voice speaking the words as he forcibly spoke them aloud.

            “What?  Canton?!  Is that you?!  Stop that!!”

            “What, not having fun?”

            “How are you-?!  I said to cut that out!”

            “Do you want me to answer your question or not?”

            The Doctor fell silent.  He argued with himself enough internally.  This was a whole new level.

            “Alright.  Explain.  And make it quick.”

            “Well we’re not exactly going anywhere at the moment, are we?”

            “I said make it quick.”

            “Well, it’s very simple really.  Someone, probably of the Satanic nature, dropped a giant box on us and it crushed me.  In the 2.56 microseconds I had, I jumped from my own beloved corporeal form to yours.  Pure survival, I promise.  I would never purposefully take a form with such an… unusual fashion sense as yours.”

            The Doctor took this in for a moment.

            “So you’re possessing me.”

            “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

            “Get out.”

            “If you haven’t noticed there’s not exactly anywhere to move to.  Besides, I’ve never taken up residence in a Time Lord before.  There’s so much… space in this head of yours.  Actually quite comfortable.  And yet, despite the space, your thoughts!... well let’s just say they’re a far cry more interesting than those of Earth’s favorite mud-monkeys. ”

            “You stay away from those!

            “‘I’ve always considered keep out signs as more of a suggestion than an actual order…’”

            “You’re not being funny Canton!  I’m being serious!! There are things no one should ever see!”

            “I’ll say.  Those High Council Time Lord robes, for starters.”

            “CANTON!”

            There was no response for a moment, and the doctor struggled involuntarily against the restraints with a scowl on his face.

            “Strictly speaking it’s not actually Canton, Doctor.  The name’s Crowley.”

            “That’s right… you’re a _demon_ aren’t you?  Huh.  Sounds more like a _demon_ name I suppose…” The Doctor paused, eyes losing focus for a moment.  “Canton’s much more likeable.  Both the name **and** the person… ”

            Crowley had no response to this.  In the momentary silence, something occurred to the Doctor.

            “How long had you been possessing Canton before you wore him to his death?” The Doctor asked, a quiet fury just beneath the surface of his words.

            “That’s beside the point.  We need to focus on the situation at hand: You know, the one where we’re both imprisoned in a giant cube with no discernible door?  As much as I like you, it’s demeaning, sharing a meat suit with anyone.  But getting out of this mess is going to take the best of both our skills, so I am peaceably suggesting we work together.” Crowley offered courteously, simultaneously changing the subject.  The Doctor was silent for a moment.

            “If you need my skills, why don’t you just take over my form completely?  Isn’t that how possession typically works?” The Doctor asked icily.

            “Well it might have been because I had a smidgeon of respect for you, but seeing as that is rapidly growing smaller by the minute, it must be the practical purpose that you know how to drive your weird alien form with two hearts much better than I.” Crowley said, his impatience growing by the minute.

            “Why would I work with you?  Demons have tortured humanity for as long as I’ve been visiting the planet.  Those are the very same humans I’ve worked to protect time and time again.”

            “Then you’re wasting your time.  They’re self-serving ignoramuses who are somehow very content to stay that way.  I’m not sure how much you know about my business, but I assure you the definition of a _deal_ remains the same; it is always made with free will on both sides of the table.  Trying to save them accomplishes nothing; they will always continue to line up to destroy themselves.” Crowley replied scornfully.  The Doctor was quiet again.

“Look.  All I’m asking for you to do is momentarily forget that I’m ‘spawn of hell’ and just work with me as if I’m still Canton.  A new and improved Canton.” Crowley said tiredly.

            “I would rather have you a thousand times over with no supernatural talents and a good heart,” the Doctor said steely, “but alright.”

            “Good.  I’m glad we cleared that up.” Crowley said, sounding pleased.  “Now do you have any plan on how to get out of here?”

            “Not a clue.  This is the Pandorica.  It was designed to be the impossible prison for me specifically.  Works pretty well in that respect.” The Doctor said tiredly, peering around at their tight surroundings.

            “Well your obviously here now, so how did you get out of it the first time?” Crowley asked thoughtfully.  The Doctor felt his memories coming up automatically for Crowley’s viewing.

“There’s nothing helpful in that story.  Someone opened it from the outside.” The Doctor told him.

            “Well there must be something we can do besides sit here.” Crowley said edgily.

            “The only difference between then and now is you being here in my head.  So if you have any supernatural abilities that would be helpful, now would be the time to put them to use.”

            It was at that exact moment the entirety of the Pandorica winked out of existence around them.  The Doctor (and Crowley) fell to the ground in a disoriented heap.

            “CUT CUT!” A voice sounded off to their right.  “WHO THE HELL IS THAT?!”

            “Well that… was effective…what did you do exactly?” The Doctor muttered to Crowley as he recovered himself.

 “Hey mate… you alright?” A familiar voice asked from somewhere above.  The Time Lord looked up to respond but soon found he could not form words on account of shock.

            There, looking genuinely concerned, was Canton/Crowley in the flesh.

            “I… uh…” The Doctor stammered.  Suddenly his jaw went slack and a thick red smoke that tasted of sulfur poured forth, straight from the Time Lord to the man.  As soon as the transition was complete, the Doctor felt a sudden lightness in the head, and nearly collapsed again.  Crowley reached out a hand to steady him.

            “What… just happened?” The Doctor asked.

            “Found a new meat suit that’s what.  Always fancied this face.” Crowley said, somewhat contentedly.

            “That’s not possible… yours was crushed.  Wait a moment.” The Doctor’s face contorted.  Glancing around, he saw people starting to gather, staring at them.  He licked a finger and tested the air.  After a millisecond he nodded.

            “New dimension.  A parallel one.  They sent us to a new dimension in the box.” The Time Lord informed Crowley who looked extremely annoyed and more than a little bit concerned.  There was a decent sized crowd around them now.

            “Dammit.  That would explain why they’ve been obsessing over…” Crowley was cut off by two security guards shoving forward.

            “Stop right where you are!  I don’t know how you got in here, but you’re on private property mister!  You’re going to have to leave!!!” One of the security guards told the Doctor, forcefully grabbing him by the arm.  The other followed suit, and soon the Doctor found himself being escorted away from Crowley, who was left standing there, uncertainty on his face.

            “I’ll find you later!  Just remember… it’s another dimension!  Everything’s different!!” The Doctor called to him.  One of the guards prodded him sharply.  “Okay, okay!  I’m moving!  No need to get rough!”

            As he was led away, the Doctor became aware that they had arrived in the middle of a studio of some sort, judging by the cameras and the various technical crews stationed around.  The security guards led the Time Lord roughly through a heavy set of doors out into the bright sunlight.  A short march later brought them to an impressive gate.

            “Hiya Sieben.  What have we here?” Another guard stationed at the gate came forward.

            “Dial the cops.  This joker is to be charged with breaking and entering.” The guard holding the Doctor said briskly.  The gate guard nodded and returned to his kiosk to make the call.

            “You know, I didn’t really break anything.  I was honestly just looking for the loo… I think this is all just a big mistake.  I’ll be on my way if you’ll just let me-” The Doctor started casually but was cut off.

            “Be quiet you little creep.  I’ve dealt with you fans before.  Downright messed up in the head, the lot of you.”

            “But I’m not…” The Doctor protested again.

            “Cops are on their way.” The gate guard stuck his head out of the kiosk.  “You’ll soon get what’s coming to you.”

            “Apparently.” The Doctor said, dismally giving in.

 


	12. Drinks and Deductions on Me

SuperWho **Lock**  


 

            “You let him go?!”

            “Well sir, he wasn’t exactly much of a threat.  And CW decided not to press charges.”

            “Do you even have the slightest idea who he was?!”

            “Since CW decided not to press charges, we had no need to hold him further or investigate.”

            “And I suppose by extension that also gave you a legitimate excuse to be a decidedly horrid failure at your job?  That man was the only clue to stopping an entire wave of crime that will be arriving shortly.  Crimes more apocalyptic than you can possibly imagine.  And you just let him walk out.”

            “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t…”

            “Save your words.  They’re no good to anyone now except maybe to appease your own ridiculously incompetent conscience.  But I doubt they will be much condolence in that line of work either…” Sherlock Holmes turned disgustedly and left the police station, leaving the young police officer shell-shocked in his wake.

            Stopping briefly, Sherlock took a deep breath of Canadian air to clear his head.  This sort of absurd mess would have never happened back home.  He had never thought much of Scotland Yard when he’d worked with them, but now working with these local Mounties...  Lestrade rarely moved a muscle without double checking with Sherlock first.  It was practical procedure, and Sherlock had only begun to realize now how much he had taken for granted.

            What were his options now?  Sherlock turned his thoughts back to the case at hand – the one that was rapidly slipping through his fingers.  For the moment the case didn’t technically exist, since the police had let Smith go and CW wasn’t pressing charges.  But the connections between the break-in at Johnson’s and this second Canadian break-in were too obvious to ignore.  Both times it was unknown how the break-in was accomplished, and nothing had been taken.  Only curious encounters with a few choice witnesses.  Sherlock had the vague feeling some message was lying behind Smith’s words from both occasions… he just had to find it.

            What he would give to talk to those witnesses.  Unfortunately Johnson was out of the question, due to distance and the fact she was John’s psychiatrist.  The other possibility, Mark Sheppard, the actor with whom Smith had exchanged words, had not been seen since the incident at the studio.  Sherlock had done a search on the actor; he had appeared with Smith before in a television show back home.  The only other ‘Brit’ in the equation, and he had disappeared.  The more the detective dug into this problem, the more it reeked of Moriarty’s games.

            He needed someone to bounce ideas off of, but there was a small problem: everyone he knew thought he was dead.  Watson was miles away across the sea, dealing with ‘trauma’, whatever that meant.  Mycroft wasn’t even worth considering.  Everyone else… idiots anyway.  As he was undercover and had no friends among the force here, obtaining a skull was even less of a good idea than announcing to the world he had returned from the grave.  Pulling his scarf around him tighter against the chilly Canadian wind, Sherlock had never felt so alone.

            “I need a drink… something stronger than tea…” Sherlock muttered eventually.

            Turning, he moved to the road side.  After a couple tries, he finally successfully hailed a taxi.

            “Moonlight Motel.” Sherlock informed the driver, after checking to make sure said driver was neither a serial killer nor Moriarty.  With a nod, the driver set off.  The motel was, as mentioned before, a rather shady establishment.  And like all shady establishments of its kind, it had a shady bar attached.  It wasn’t the type of place he frequented for pleasure – Sherlock Holmes frequented nowhere except the morgue for pleasure – but he had no ID with which to purchase alcohol for himself in a respectable bar.  Plus there was always the type that DID frequent the bar… individuals of questionable trades that provided a sort of entertainment for the detective to read.

            As the taxi pulled up in front of the motel, it was almost dark.  Stopping by his room momentarily, Sherlock scrounged about and located some money.  There wasn’t much left of it, but Sherlock figured he might as well spend it.  As he stuffed his pockets with the cash, he once again noticed a familiar article of clothing: His coat.  Fingering the fabric, a rare genuine smile crossed the detective’s usually stoic features.

            “Growing nostalgic, Sherlock?” the detective asked himself out loud.  After a second, he made up his mind and swung the coat around, putting it on.  Something seemed to click into place – a part of him perhaps.  Sherlock paused for a moment to relish the feeling.  Then he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

            Strolling across the darkened parking lot to the bar, the evening seemed unusually quiet.  If he were a criminal like Moriarty, the detective thought wryly, the night was a perfect one for something to go terribly wrong.

            As he pulled the creaking screened door open, a wave of cigarette smoke greeted the detective.  Breathing it in heavily, Sherlock was reminded of Watson’s chronic disapproval.  The thought made him feel almost guilty, and even more nostalgic.  What was wrong with him today?

            Waving a dismissive hand at the waitress who looked up at his entry, Sherlock walked over to a booth and seated himself.  While waiting for the waitress to bring him a menu, he cast a general eye over the crowd populating the dimly lit space.

            There were two decidedly shifty people in the booth behind him, making some sort of deal, the nature of which was clearly not legal.  Across the tables there was a low-wage couple who were going through their fifth ‘tough time’ this year – the frustration was clear on both their faces.  At the bar there was a dishonest business man losing himself in alcohol, and down at the far end of the bar there was a prostitute desperately trying to get the attention of…

            “What’ll it be?” the waitress asked with a tired fake smile.

            "A new seat I think.” Sherlock was already moving.  It was impossible.  It couldn’t be.

            It was.

            Stalking over to the two of them, Sherlock tapped the girl on the shoulder.  As she turned, he thrust a five into her hand.

            “Here’s what you really want.  You don’t even have to deliver the goods.  Now do us both a favor and go home to rethink your life.” He said swiftly without giving her a second glance.  The girl stared at the money for a second then at the detective.  She wisely decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of staying, and she slunk away in the direction of the business man.  But Sherlock wasn’t paying attention to her anymore.  His eyes were Mr. Matt Smith, the one and only.  The man who had eluded Sherlock all day had his head in his hands, an unfinished dinner resting on the bar before him.

            Taking a seat, Sherlock motioned for the bartender.

            “Can I get you a drink, friend?  You look like you’ve had a rough day.” the detective spoke to Smith casually without looking at him.

            “Yeah actually.  I’m a bit short on cash at the moment… but I’ll have some of the strong stuff.  Earl Grey.” Came the cheeky response.  The bartender gave Sherlock a look, but Sherlock waved for him to fill the order.

            “So… what brings you to these parts?” Sherlock asked, straining to keep things casual despite desperately wanting to interrogate the man head on.

            “Not quite sure… I do believe I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way.  Got separated from a friend… though I’m not sure he’s a friend actually… more of an acquaintance really.”

            “What do you mean by that?” Sherlock probed.  At this Smith looked up.

            “You ask a lot of questions, for a guy in a backwater Canadian motel.” He said, eyeing Sherlock.  The detective cringed inwardly.  He hadn’t played it safe enough.

            “Just curious.” Sherlock said shrugging.

            “No you’re not.” Smith said, eyes narrowed.

            “Sorry?” Sherlock asked, taken aback.

            “I said, “No, you’re not”.  As in, no, you are not just curious.  You are hanging on my every word.  I can tell by your posture.  You are here buying me a drink because you think I have something you want.  Look at you.  Your accent is British, a far cry different from the locals, and your coat is London fashion, though judging by the fact it hasn’t been properly washed for quite some time, I’d say you’re away from home for a reason other than vacation, though it’s not official day business.  From the way came directly to me from that booth, I’d say you were hunting me down.  The only thing I don’t know is ‘Why?’” Smith said, breaking it down for Sherlock.

            For perhaps the first moment in history, Sherlock Holmes sat there, completely lost for words.  Whatever he had been expecting, it was not that.

            “Are you just going to stand there staring at me, or are you going to tell me why you’re here?” Smith asked critically.  Sherlock shook off his initial shock and kicked his own brain back into gear.

            “Your observations are impressive, but if you know that I came for you, you shouldn’t play games.  You know exactly why I’m here.  You don’t exactly blend into the crowd either, do you?  British accent, like mine.  Tweed jacket, bow tie… and two theft-free, seemingly illogical breaking and entering’s within the last two weeks on separate continents.”

            “Ah… so I’ve stirred the pot a little.  Isn’t a bloke allowed to travel?” Smith asked with a half-hearted smile, turning to the bar as his tea arrived.

            “Your slumped posture suggests personal loss, and the tightness of your grip on your cup says you tried to do something about it… which only led to a bigger mess.  Possibly the one you’re in now.” Sherlock said, watching him.

            “You weren’t sitting so upright a moment ago at your booth.  I’d venture a guess I’m not the only one experiencing ‘personal loss’.”

            “Your clothes are four decades past their prime.  Either you have a terrible fashion sense or you mean to stick out.”

            “Bow ties are cool.” Smith said stubbornly with a smile, eyeing Sherlock over, “And scarves of that design are only worn by people who think rather highly of themselves.”

            “I know who you are.”

            “I doubt that very much.”

            “And I know you know who I am.”

            “I am absolutely sure you’re wrong on that one.”

            “Why did you break into the CW studio?” Sherlock challenged.  Smith looked up at this.

            “I didn’t break in!  I was deliberately misled there.”

            “Misled past security cameras and guards?”

            “I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

            “Do I look like an idiot?”

            “I tastefully choose to withhold my answer to that question.” Smith replied, turning back to his tea.

            “I know you’re working with Moriarty, Smith.” Sherlock said calmly, watching the other man.

            “Oh yes.  And I suppose that makes you…” Smith said waving his hands in the air exaggeratedly.  Suddenly he stopped and turned to Sherlock, looking at him in a whole new light.

            “What did you say your name was?” He asked, suddenly very serious.

            “Holmes.  Sherlock Holmes.  At your service.” Sherlock said smugly.  He knew he shouldn’t be spreading the word that he wasn’t dead, but if Smith was working for Moriarty, he already knew.

            “By the… you really are aren’t you?!  Haha!  I hadn’t even considered!!!” Smith looked genuinely delighted at the idea.  “I should have known from all that…” Smith gestured, “deducing!”

            “Indeed...” Sherlock said, starting to feel wary at Smith’s unusual reaction.  Still, he felt that slight ripple of pride that came with praise.  He’d forgotten what it was like to have someone fawning over his abilities.  But he quickly dismissed it.  This man did work for Moriarty after all.

            “But where’s the good doctor?” Smith asked with a grin.  “Tell me you have a Watson!”

            At this Sherlock stopped short.  His stomach hit rock bottom.

            Was Moriarty telling him something was about to happen to John?  Had something already happened?  Instantly Sherlock grabbed Smith by the collar and held him close, much to the man’s surprise.

           “What is he planning for John?  We had a deal he’d be left alone.” Sherlock said, dead serious.  Smith looked genuinely bewildered.

           “I think, not for the first time, that you have me confused with someone else.” Smith said, slightly concerned.

           “Moriarty.  What does he have planned?  I know you work for him.”

           “Moriarty?  You mean the criminal mastermind?   No, I don’t work for him!!  That’s absurd!” Smith said half laughing.  Sherlock slightly lessened his grip.  Smith took the opportunity to pull out of his grasp.

           “But you…”

           “You know, I’ve never been accused of working with a criminal mastermind before.  That is a first.” Smith said, holding up a finger with another grin.   Sherlock considered this new development.  On one hand, he didn’t believe Smith.  Everything about these events pointed to Moriarty, but Smith was one factor that didn’t fit the equation.  Everyone who worked for Moriarty was terrified by the name.  Then again, Smith was an actor.  Perhaps this was just more of the game.  Whatever it was, Sherlock was absolutely certain Smith was the key for the moment.

           “Honestly, if that’s the best you’ve got, you’re not the Sherlock Holmes I expected.  Then again, I wasn’t really ‘expecting’ you to exist at all.  Especially in this time period.”

           “I… don’t follow.” Sherlock said, eyeing Smith.

           “Look at you.  Positively modern.  The universe never ceases to amaze I suppose.” Smith said, looking Sherlock over, clearly very delighted.

           Sherlock didn’t really know what to say to this.  Was it part of the game?  Should he be taking notes?

           “Hey wait a minute!” Smith said suddenly. “You really solve mysteries don’t you?”

           “I suppose you could say that…” Sherlock said cautiously.

           “I don’t suppose… you work a case for me?  A murder?” Smith asked with a sad smile.  Sherlock considered it for a moment.

           He decided he’d play the game for now.

           “I… don’t see why not.” Sherlock said, gesturing for Smith to continue.

           “Excellent.  You won’t regret it.  It’s… quite an unusual case.  I’m beginning to think I’ve got the wrong suspects… I guess you’ll be the judge of that.” Smith said happily.  He took another gulp of his tea and then stood.  Sherlock followed suit, throwing down some change to cover the bill, all the while not taking his eyes off the curious man.

           “Lead the way.” the detective moved aside to allow Smith to go first.  With a jaunty stride, Smith did so, opening the door and heading out into the night with Sherlock matching his stride close behind, though the detective walked with less of a jaunt and more of a stalk.

           “To be honest, we first have to figure out how to return to the crime scene… my, er, vehicle and I were separated.  But I’m a firm believer in optimism, and I’m sure my friend will have come up with some sort of idea by now, if we can find him.  He’s a regular demon as far as plans go…” Smith carried on.  Sherlock merely followed, wondering just what he was getting into.

           “Oh and by the way, I’m not sure what you meant by that ‘Smith’ stuff… that’s only a fake name really.  Generally I go by ‘the Doctor’ or just ‘Doctor’.” Smith told Sherlock, as they walked.

           “Doctor?  Doctor Who?” Sherlock asked.

           “I love it when they say that.” The Doctor said with another smile.


	13. The Second Coming of Our Time Lord

**Super** WhoLock

 

            “We are so dead.”

            “Mmm-hmm.”

            “I mean, we are really screwed.”

            “Yeah.  We are.”

            “I mean, we are so dead, you could put us out on the street and put up a sign that says, ‘Roadkill’.”

            “Yes Dean, I think we get the picture, thanks.”

            “We are so dead.”

            At this Sam finally could take no more.  Glancing up from his laptop, he gave his brother a cross look.

            “Isn’t there something more productive you can do with your time?” He asked critically.

            “What’s the point?  We’re dead meat anyway.” Dean said, staring at the ceiling from his position on the bed, dead-eyed.  “I mean, last time we barely came out on top.  This time I don’t even know how to begin to stop the Apocalypse.  Bobby’s gone.  Crowley’s gone.  Cas is probably captured or worse… And to top it off, we’re not ‘untouchable’ anymore.  In fact, we’re the opposite!  Both the God Squad and the Pit are AFTER us!”

            “Well whining about it isn’t going to help.” Sam pointed out.  Dean gave him a look.

            “I’m being serious.  We’re in trouble here.  I’m not sure how we’re going to pull through this one.” Dean said darkly.

            “Well I have an idea where to start.  I’ve been going over Crowley’s file again.  These ‘Time Lords’ are a new factor… if one’s operating behind the scenes there’s probably more to this Apocalypse than meets the eye.” Sam started carefully.

            “So?  It’s still the Apocalypse.  Kind of warrants our primary attention, first and foremost.”

            “Yes… but if these Time Lords have the firepower to strut around in Hell and open Lucifer’s cage…” Sam said thoughtfully.  “Maybe…”

            “Maybe… they could slam them both in there again?” Dean finished Sam’s thought, sitting up, interested.  “Just like last time… with a sci-fi twist.  But we’re fresh out of Time Lord.”

            “Not exactly.  Remember what Lucifer said?  He sent them to… THAT dimension.  The same one Balthazar sent US to.  The one without magic or any supernatural… stuff.” Sam gestured, unable to conjure more sophisticated vocabulary to describe THAT place.

“The dimension can’t be escaped from inside… but it can if you have someone helping you on THIS side.” Sam said, recalling the memory of that particular venture.

            “So… rescue mission?” Dean surmised.  Sam nodded.  Dean took a deep breath and looked away. “God I hoped we’d never have to go back to that place…”

            “Well first we’re going to need a few things…” Sam said, pulling Bobby’s journal out of a bag and flipping through it.

            “Shopping?” Dean asked.

“Shopping.” Sam acknowledged.

. . .

            It didn’t take Crowley too long to find the Doctor, wandering a back alley, looking for a weak point for a dimensional breach with his sonic screwdriver.  The Time Lord gave off a sort of supernatural aura that distinguished him from the insignificant humans around him.  Curiously enough, he seemed to have picked up someone along the way.

            “You would not believe the day I’ve had.” the demon said in greeting to the Time Lord.  He set down his load, a heavy milk jug full of blood and nodded to the newcomer, who was eyeing the aforementioned milk carton rather warily.

            “Ah Canton.  I was hoping you’d turn up sooner or later.  How did you fare today?”

            “It’s Crowley, remember?  And in answer to your question, absolutely terribly.  I’d heard of this damnable place without magic but… well let’s just say I never intended to be trapped here.  Who’s this?” Crowley asked critically, eyeing Sherlock.

            “This, my dear demon, is none other than Sherlock Holmes himself!  He actually exists in this dimension!” The Doctor said, delightedly showing Sherlock off as if he was a toy.

            “Right.” Crowley said, looking a bit skeptical, “That sheds absolutely no light on why he’s here.”

            “I… need his help on something.” The Doctor said reticently.  Crowley looked unconvinced.

            “What do YOU need a detective for?”

            “Consulting detective, actually.” Sherlock corrected.

            “Whatever makes you feel better, Miss Marple.” Crowley said patronizingly.

            “I-” Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but was stopped by the Doctor’s swift intervention.

            “I need him.” The Doctor said firmly.  “He’s going to help solve a murder.  I’m beginning to think my original two suspects were framed… somehow.”     

            “The Winchesters?  I could have told you that.” Crowley said impatiently.  “Those idiots are sadly the closest thing America has to ‘righteous heroes’.”

            “So I’ve read… and then there was no motive at all for them to go back in time and… anyway, I’m hoping Mr. Holmes here can help with that.” The Doctor said eagerly.

            “I wouldn’t bet money on it.” Crowley said, still critical.  “I’d be surprised if his mind didn’t snap completely when he starts seeing the fireworks.  Then he’ll be nothing but dead weight.” The Doctor looked away at this.  Crowley sighed.

            “Well I suppose you’re entitled to your ridiculous plans, just as much as I am.” the demon gave in.  The Doctor, though half surprised at the easy win, flashed him a grateful, semi-triumphant smile.

            “So if you’re Sherlock, where’s the good doctor?”  Crowley asked sardonically, turning to Sherlock after a moment.  At this Sherlock flinched again, before promptly pulling out his phone.

            “Please, don’t mind me.” he said curtly, before turning away.  Dialing a number he had clearly memorized by heart, he held the phone up to his ear.  It rang for a few tense seconds as the demon and the Time Lord looked on.

            “…hullo???” a very sleepy voice sounded at the other end.  Sherlock quickly hung, up breathing a sigh of relief.  Crowley shot a questioning look at the Doctor, who shrugged.

            “I don’t know what you’re playing at… but as long as John’s not involved, I’ll play you’re your game.” Sherlock said, returning to the other two.

            “Did you drop him on the way here, or has he always been this special?” Crowley asked the Doctor with a raised eyebrow.  The Doctor had no answer for him.  Sherlock looked somewhere between annoyed and obsessed with everything that was going on.

            “Whatever floats your boat.” Crowley said shrugging. “Just hold onto your knickers Mr. I-only-operate-in-the-mundane-world.  Things are about to get beyond your level.”

            “I don’t believe such a level exists.” Sherlock retorted.

            “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?” Crowley said with a curt smile.  Then he turned to the Doctor. 

            “What’s the story on the breach?” the demon asked, down to business.  At this the Doctor perked up, happy to have something to occupy his mind other than the tense relations.  With a flourish, he pulled out the sonic screwdriver and scanned the wall another time.  Glancing at the readings, the Time Lord sighed and stood back, looking at the wall.

            “Well… this seems to be one of the better weak points.  Besides the TV filming set that is.  Though I still don’t think it will be enough to get through again.” the Time Lord said sadly.

            “Give me some good news for a change.  You said something about getting a message through over the phone…?  Tell me I didn’t go to all this trouble for nothing.”

            “Ah yes.  Basically… the tiniest bits of magic bleed through these weak points.  Here in this alley, and back at the Supernatural set… it’s why you were still able to take a new form when we first arrived… and why theoretically we should be able to make a call…” for the first time the Doctor noticed the jug of blood.

            “Where did you get that?” He asked Crowley immediately.

            “It’s not important.” Crowley waved the matter off.  The Doctor’s eyes narrowed.

            “I didn’t kill anyone if that’s what you’re worried about.” Crowley said, rolling his eyes.  The Doctor eyed him suspiciously for a moment, but continued.

            “And that’s it really.  The idea is that we’ll be able to get through to someone in OUR dimension and then have them open the dimensional rift again… but I haven’t the slightest whom to call… or how…” The Doctor trailed off, feeling for once quite out of his area of expertise.

            “Well that’s where I come in.” Crowley said professionally, as he knelt and began to set up the blood communication.

            “What about the box though?  The Pandorica?  It was science, not magic.  Yet it disappeared when we got here, and, much as I’d like to claim the credit, it wasn’t me.” Crowley asked as he worked methodically.

            “That’s another matter to worry about altogether…” The Doctor said, frowning as if the matter had crossed his mind as well, “The Pandorica was originally created and sustained by a stream of subconscious thoughts from a mind.  Logically, the Pandorica we were trapped worked the same way.  When we arrived here, the link was severed by dimensional distance, and so the Pandorica ceased to exist.  But…” the Doctor trailed off again.

            “ ‘But’ is never a good thing in my experience.” Crowley prompted.

            “The timeline in which the original Pandorica existed was erased and re-written.  The universe was rebooted, so to speak.  There are only three other people besides myself who remember that lost timeline… and would be able to remember the Pandorica… and two of them are dead.”

            “Sounds like we have a pretty good lead when we get back then.” Crowley summarized.  The Doctor looked uncertain.

            “On my side of things, it took me all day to get this, and even then I’m not sure if it’ll work.  This cup is a prop, hardly the real deal.  But I figure that with the magic bleeding through… well you get the idea.” Crowley said, gesturing to the ancient looking goblet with runes on it he had produced.

            “What about the blood?” Sherlock asked, nodding to the jug.

            “Well that’s never hard to come by, is it?” Crowley said with a small smile.  At this information, Sherlock’s face turned a shade paler, much to Crowley’s satisfaction.

            “It’s not as fresh as I usually deal with… but hopefully it should do the trick.”

            “Just make the call.” The Doctor said irritably.  Crowley could tell the Time Lord’s conscience was bothering him.  Working with a demon and all.

            “Hold your horses.  Let’s just hope someone’s on the other end ready to pick up the phone.”

. . .

_“…….ss………. ssss………..chest….r…”_

           The noise wasn’t very loud, but since the cup was very close to Sam’s head, it disturbed the younger Winchester slightly in his sleep.  With a bit of a shuffle, the tall hunter rearranged his arms to form a more comfortable pillow, before setting his head back down on them.

_“….winchester!...”_

          This time the whispered call came through slightly stronger, jolting Sam fully awake.  Looking around he saw no one.  Maybe it was time he went to bed for real.

 _“…answer…moron...”_ the whisper was slight and hard to understand, but certainly there.  For the first time, Sam noticed the cup and nearly fell over himself to pick it up.

           “Hello?!?  Crowley is that you?!” Sam asked quickly, bending over the bloody cup.

 _“Do you get frequent calls by blood ritual from other people, Moose?  It’s about time you morons picked up.”_ Crowley’s annoyed voice came through.

           “DEAN!  DEAN I’VE GOT THEM ON CALL!!!” Sam shouted through the house to his brother.  He heard a thud followed by the older Winchester yelling something as Dean presumably fell out of bed.

           “We didn’t think you’d made it.  You were crushed by giant cube… ” Sam explained to the demon.  “We only have the blood call set up because we thought one of us would have to go in ourselves to get the Time Lord.  Is he with you?”

 _“Glad to know you care.  Yes, he’s safe and sound with me.  I even cleared up a bit of your issue with him.  But we need you to open the portal back through.”_ Crowley told Sam, who was momentarily distracted by Dean hobbling into the room, trying to simultaneously put on a shirt and a pair of jeans.

           “Is that Crowley?” Dean asked frowning.  Sam nodded briefly before turning back to the call.

           “We’ve got the stuff to open the door.  But we’re not quite sure about how to pull it off.  Don’t you need to be in the same place you came through?” Sam asked the demon.  He heard vague swearing on the other end of the line.

 _“Yeah we do.  Unfortunately we came through on the green screen set of some damned show starring you two morons.”_ Crowley said, sounding disgruntled.

          “Once again – who would want to watch our lives?” Dean philosophized at no one in particular.

          “How soon do you think you can get back there?” Sam asked, ignoring his brother.

_“Half an hour maybe?  Everything’s closed right now, but we shouldn’t have too much trouble breaking in.”_

         “Alright.  We’ll open the portal at 2:56 A.M.  Sound good?”

 _“We’ll be there.  Just make sure you play your part as flawlessly as you two apes are capable of.  Maybe we’ll have a chance.”_ and with that the demon hung up.  Or stopped talking into the bloody cup as it were.

        “Huh.  He’s not very good when it comes to gratitude, is he?” Sam said, looking into the depths of the cup, before setting it down.

        “Neither end of the celestial scale is particularly good with that emotion.” Dean said shrugging.

        “Speaking of which, still no word from Cas?” Sam asked him.  Dean shook his head. 

        “Maybe he’s just busy.” Sam suggested, even though he didn’t believe it himself.

        Dean was silent at this, and Sam eyed his brother warily.  Dean tended to get like this whenever something big was looming over them.  Snappy, moody… constantly worrying.  It was especially bad when Castiel was involved.  They hadn’t exactly signed legal papers, but the little trench-coated angel was family in all but name and blood.

        “Well… come on.  We’d better go get Crowley and ‘the Doctor’.  The sooner we fix this mess the better.” Dean said, shouldering a duffle bag and heading out the door, salt shotgun in hand.  Sam followed suit, shutting the laptop and grabbing his own gun off the table.

        The ride in the Impala was short, uneventful, and quiet.  They knew they had reached the spot when the headlights of the car lit up the dark stain on the pavement that used to be Crowley.

        As Sam got out the ingredients for the spell, Dean checked the perimeter.  Neither of the Winchesters expected Lucifer to have stayed around, but playing it safe when it came to the devil was never a bad idea.  After walking around the edge of where the Impala lights reached twice, Dean came back to his brother.

        “Nothing.  How goes the spell, Harry?” Dean asked Sam.

        “Everything seems to be in the right place…” Sam said standing back. “What’s the time?” Sam looked at Dean, who pulled his sleeve up to check his watch.

        “2:54 on the dot.” Dean informed him. “We have a couple of minutes.” Sam nodded and the two stood in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

        “How did Crowley survive?” Sam asked after a moment.  “He was pretty crushed by that block.”

        “I dunno.  He must have escaped smoke-like right into the box.” Dean shrugged.

        “But it all happened so quickly… it seems a little impossible.” Sam said slowly.

        “What, you think something fishy is going on?” Dean asked.  Sam looked at him.

        “That’s exactly what I think.” the younger Winchester said seriously.  Dean looked unconvinced at this.

        “I don’t know… he and Lucifer aren’t exactly on good terms…”

        “But Lucifer’s on even worse terms with us.  It would have been in Crowley’s best interest to sell us out to save his own skin and prove himself a loyal servant…”

        “Alright.  I see your point.” Dean stopped Sam’s listing.  “I just think now’s not the time to be worried about our only allies.”

        “Would you rather them stab us in the back?  Again?” Sam asked critically, Dean said nothing but glanced at his watch again.

        “It’s 2:56.  You’d better open the gate.” Dean said at last.  Sam gave Dean another look, then bent down and painted a last symbol on the ground.

        “Well that’s it.  We don’t have the box they originally went through, but…” As Sam stood back admiring his handiwork, the red runes painted on the ground began to glow.  A strong wind began to whip around the Winchesters.

        “Well something seems to be working!” Dean shouted to his brother.  Indeed the noise of the wind was growing with every second.  The symbols on the road were likewise glowing brighter and brighter.

        After a few seconds of the commotion, everything suddenly died down to a quiet stillness.  Dean was about to ask if it had failed when there was a noise like shattering glass and the pavement exploded upward, knocking both Dean and Sam backward.

        As bits of gravel and dust rained down, two choking Winchesters struggled back towards where the portal had been.  A small crater was now burned into the road at that place, and in the midst of the hole were three filthy and disoriented figures.

        “Through the pavement?  Oh that was a BRILLIANT idea!” a familiar voice sounded out through the mess.

        “We didn’t exactly have much of a choice in the matter.  We came through at this spot the first time, we had to go back through this spot!  Besides, look on the bright side, it’s not every day you get to blast through concrete!  Ah, here are your two friends.  Hello!” A new cheery voice greeted the Winchesters.

        “Hello boys.  For once it’s good to see you.” Crowley grumbled a greeting to the Winchesters.  They numbly nodded back, watching the dimensional travelers clambering out of the sizable depression in the road.

        Once they were out of the smoking crater, Crowley began to dust himself off irritably.  The other speaker didn’t seem to notice the grime, and instead stepped forward jovially, presenting a dirty hand to the Winchesters.

        “Hullo!  I’m the Doctor!” the Time Lord said with a bright smile that contrasted sharply against his sooty features.  A hesitant Sam shook his hand warily.

        “I’m rather sorry about earlier.  I do believe I confused you two for a pair of murderers…er, that was me who put the subspace displacement instigator in your car… and then again in the box chasing your car…  You put up quite a chase I must say!  Never had someone keep ahead of me that long!”

        “Right…” Sam said with an uncertain grin and a sideways glance at Dean.  He couldn’t quite believe this was the extraterrestrial entity capable of saving them all.

        “But she is quite a model, isn’t she?  The ’67 Impala!  There was never quite another car like it.  Except maybe the ’256 model.  Now there was an escape car… WILL be for you linear time travellers, I suppose.” The Doctor carried on with a wide smile, as Dean likewise accepted the enthusiastic handshake warily.

        “Much as I love a good chat, this isn’t exactly a social call.  We really ought to be moving.  Preferably to somewhere with angel and demon warding.  Anything happened since our short vacation?” Crowley asked the Winchesters, cutting off the sociable Doctor.

        “Well, after you left, Lucifer practically let us escape though, which can’t be good.” Dean informed the demon.  “Other than that we’ve heard general reports of world ending signs starting up again.  I have some thirty messages on my phone…  All in all, it seems like it’s gonna be Apocalypse Round II.”

        “Round II?” the Doctor asked, confused.

        “We can have a chat later.  The important thing to do now is move our little party to somewhere safe.  This may be second time for some of us, but don’t think for a second that anything is going to be the same.” Crowley told them, looking first to the Doctor then the Winchesters.

        “Alright.  We can take my ride!” The Doctor turned around enthusiastically, only to stop short.  The TARDIS was nowhere to be seen.

        “…Where’s my ship?” the Time Lord asked looking around.  Crowley looked up sharply at this.  His gaze lighted upon the Winchesters, both of whom fidgeted unhappily.

        “Ah… about that…” Sam said, looking apologetic.  The Doctor’s face drained of color as he instantly knew what Sam was implying.

        “She’s gone?” He asked, his voice barely above a whisper.  Sam nodded sheepishly.  The Doctor looked away, calculating, his face betraying a mind in turmoil.  It wasn’t just the Time Lord who was upset at this news either; Crowley was clearly disturbed at this update as well.

        “That,” the demon said, staring off into space thinking hard, “is very bad news.”

        “Our best guess is that Lucifer took it with him after we left…” Sam surmised unhelpfully.  Neither demon nor Time Lord looked reassured.  However when the Doctor turned back to them again, the emotion had been stashed away.  After glancing at the Doctor, Crowley stepped forward to reiterate their need for haste.

        “It’s something we’ll have to worry about another time.  Right now we…”

        “Hey.  What’s up with London fashion over there?” Dean suddenly noticed Sherlock who was still standing in the smoking crater, covered head to foot in soot, staring blankly and muttering frantically.

        “Oh I knew this would happen.” Crowley said irritably.  He glared pointedly at the Doctor who looked away.  With an exasperated sigh, the demon strode over to Sherlock and snapped his fingers in front of the detective’s face.

        “Anyone home?” he asked.  Sherlock didn’t seem to register he was there.

        “Can’t… impossible… blood talking… hallucinations? No… different place… impossible… Moriarty…playing with me…” the detective continued to mutter to himself.

        “Well if he was cracked before, he’s broken now.” Crowley told the others, peering  into the detective’s glassy eyes.  With a frown, the Doctor moved forward, sonic in hand, but Crowley stopped him.

        “No, not now.  We need to leave.” Crowley said seriously.  He pointed to the Winchesters, “You two.  Get the catatonic into the car.”

        “Tell me why exactly you’re in charge?” Dean asked with a frown.  Crowley looked like he was about to explode.

        “Because I seem to be the only one who understands the reality of the crisis we’re all in, and how in said time of crisis we need to protect our ONLY VALUABLE ASSET!” Crowley’s voice escalated into a shout, and he gestured to the Doctor.

        “Me?  What’s so special about me?” the Doctor asked, slightly surprised.  Crowley opened his mouth to reply but never got the chance, for at that precise moment, their time ran out.

        Dean recognized the sound instantly, despite it had been so many years since he’d first heard it in that run-down convenience store.  It was high pitched and loud, and it reverberated in the air all around them.  Both Winchesters and Sherlock clapped their hands to their ears in pain.  Crowley swore loudly.  The Doctor looked around rapidly for the source of the sound, both fascinated and concerned at the same time.

        “ANGELS!!!” Dean shouted unnecessarily.

        The dark sky all around them began to light up.  Soon it was as if they were all looking at the world through a lens that increased the brightness and concentration of the picture.  For the mortals, it was like looking at the sun.

        “Dammit!” Crowley shouted over the growing noise.  “If you humans know what’s good for you, DON’T LOOK AT THEM!” He called.  By this point, the demon also had his hands over his ears as he fell to his knees.

        The Time Lord was the only one left standing.  As the light burned around him, the noise intensified.  For a full minute it remained that way.

        “Who are you and what do you want?!” The Doctor challenged the light all around them.

        At this the noise faded and the light began to recede, until all of a sudden there was a bright flash and at least a hundred people in suits were standing around them on all sides.  Probably more.  As the light died somewhat, the Winchesters were able to look up.

        Directly in front of the Doctor, stood four people – one blond woman and two men who held another in between them.

        “Cas!” Dean called out impulsively.  The trench-coated angel had looked better.

        “Well?!” The Doctor asked them all.  Looking around, he noticed all eyes were on him; and the look in those eyes was frightening.

        It was the look the Doctor saw in the eyes of frightened children, once they found their parents again.

        The blonde woman came forward cautiously, before falling to her knees, tears in her eyes.

        “My God… you have returned to us!”


	14. The Doctor is IN

Super **Who** Lock

 

            For once in his life, the Doctor was stunned into silence.

            Following suit behind the woman, the rest of the heavenly host followed likewise reverently knelt before the Time Lord.

            “My Lord… Castiel brought us news of your return.” the woman said, not raising her eyes out of pure reverence, “Forgive us for not coming sooner… we… could not feel your presence as he could.  We lacked faith.”

            “We lacked faith… should have believed…” the angels chorused around her.  The Doctor glanced around at them, completely lost.

            “Look I…” the Doctor tried to speak but nothing came out.  “…what did you lack faith in?” he finally managed weakly.

            “You, my Lord.  That you would someday return to your creation.” She said, looking at him with wide eyes.  That was it.  Fears confirmed.  The Doctor swallowed.

            “You think I’m…” He started to say but stopped halfway into the sentence.  The infatuated gaze of all the angels collectively was slightly terrifying.  They were, first and foremost, the heavenly host, an army without compare, if the stories were even half true.  And the only thing that was standing between them and him was their misconceptions of his identity.

            “My Lord, we have been waiting for your return for so long…” the angel said, so intensely genuine it induced pain.

            “…I’m sure you have…” the Doctor said, his voice cracking slightly.  “What have you… er… been doing in my absence exactly?”

            “We…” the angel faltered and looked for support from her brethren, all of whom likewise seemed suddenly anxious.

            “We have been misled my Lord.” She said, turning back to the Doctor, tears on her face.  “Misled by this slime!” She gestured emotionally to Castiel, whose head was bowed. “After Michael failed, he seduced us all into following him… but that was before he tried to claim your rightful place as God!”

            “I...” The Doctor wasn’t quite sure what to say to this.

            “It was a mistake!  His intentions were pure!” A strong voice came out from behind the Doctor.  The Time Lord glanced behind him to see Sam still shielding his eyes somewhat, struggling to stand.

            “Be silent Winchester.  You stand in the presence your creator.  Speak again and it will be your last.” Another angel stepped forward toward Sam and Dean.

            “Ah ah ah.  I’d be careful if I were you.” Crowley tutted wryly as he regained his footing and brushed himself off (again).  “In case you ignorant little featherheads haven’t noticed, those two have a habit of being helped by… ‘God’.  They’re his special favorites.  Isn’t that right?” Crowley turned to the Doctor with a wry smile and a wink.

            In a flash, three angels were upon the demon, grabbing his arms and forcing him to the ground.

            “Speak not to our Lord and Father, demon FILTH!” the woman spat at Crowley.  The angels restraining the demon proceeded to strike him.  Once, twice.  The punches flew at lightning speed until a second later Crowley was doubled over, coughing up blood.

            “Stop!” The Doctor’s voice sounded out instantly.  The angels halted, looking up at him confused.

            “My Lord?” the woman looked at the Doctor, confused.

            “You heard me.  I said stop.  As in cease and desist.” The Doctor said, clearly incensed.  Despite his pain, Crowley smiled.

            “My Lord… I’m not sure you know who this is…” the woman informed the Doctor, “He’s not just a demon… This is the monster that runs HELL.”

            “He could be running an ice cream truck business, for all I care.  It doesn’t give you an excuse to beat on him like a sack of potatoes!” The Doctor said, his voice taking a shade of anger.  His confidence growing every second, he continued. “If you lot had any intelligence, you would have noticed that he’s WITH me … and therefore under my protection!”

            “But my Lord…” the woman protested, confusion and concern in her eyes.

            “That’s the problem with you sanctimonious types.” The Doctor cut her off, eyes flashing. “Never looking beyond what you believe to be true.  Did it ever occur to you that you might be wrong?  Tell me, how exactly does the concept of salvation work if you do not know how to forgive?” The Doctor finished, his eyes hard.

            The angels shuffled uncomfortably, and the three that held Crowley looked uncertainly to the woman in front.

            “If you didn’t catch the subtext, I meant you should LET HIM GO.” The Doctor told them.  Turning around, the Time Lord’s eyes fixed on Castiel and his restrainers.

            “Him too!”

            Sheepishly the angels released Castiel, who nearly fell to the ground from exhaustion.

            “Now… what do you have to say for yourselves?” The Doctor challenged them all.

            “That you are a great fool to think you can get away with impersonating God.” A new voice entered the mix, and the crowd parted to let the owner forward. 

            The newcomer looked a bit like Sam and Dean.  He was even dressed like them.  What he was not, however, was like them.

            “And you are?” the Doctor asked, trying to play it cool.  It didn’t work; he already knew his game was up.

            “Michael.  The Archangel.  And I know my real Father when I see him.  Or more specifically, when I don’t.” Michael spoke evenly, but his eyes were full of a burn that suggested mass murder might be on his to-do list today.

            “I thought you looked familiar.  Nice to see you again, Michael old sport.” The Doctor said with a winning smile.

            “You are not my Father.” Michael stated flatly.  At this the angels all around looked shocked and confused.  They began to mutter amongst themselves.

            “Right.  Well you’re not what I believe ‘angels’ ought to be!  So I suppose we’re all a little let-down today.  Fancy that.” The Doctor replied, backpedaling now.

            “You have more than a few misdemeanors to answer for, Time Lord.” Michael said with a cold smile.  “You have been involved in much of the strife of this planet, you have freely consorted with the most wanted of war criminals, and you have unforgivably trespassed in matters most sacred to us.” Michael told the Time Lord calmly.  “It is therefore my duty to deal with you personally.  Seize him.” the angel finished with an order to his brethren.  The other angels looked between each other, uncertain.  The Doctor seized what little time he had left.  Whirling around, he produced the sonic screwdriver from his pocket with a flourish.  As he continued to walk backwards to the Impala and the Winchesters, he held the screwdriver to his forehead.

             “Well it may be true I’m not ‘God’.  But, as you so cleverly identified me as a moment ago, I am a Time Lord, and let me tell you, that is so much worse for you all.  You lot certainly seem like the telepathic type.  We Time Lords had a knack for telepathy too… and if there’s one thing I’m absolutely sure of…” the Doctor paused slightly as he glanced upward at the Sonic.  It suddenly let off a charging whine like a camera after a flash.

             “It’s that you all aren’t made of wood.”

             And with that the Doctor pressed a switch on the Sonic.  Immediately the tool let out a piercing reverberating sound.  In an instant every angel was down, some writhing in pain, some screaming silently, others lying still on the ground, staring in blank horror.

             As they were tortured, those who still could began to disappear, including Michael.  Some took their tortured brethren with them, until only a few were left.  The Doctor gazed at the diminished heavenly host for a moment, feeling a fleeting remorse as they suffered.  Then he was snapped back to the present by a hand on his arm.

             “What did you do?” Sam asked, looking around at all the angels as they continued to writhe and disappear.

             “Ah, Sam!  Good to see you’re alright!  Gotta love humans.  Practically no telepathic reception; makes you quite immune to any ‘mind’ attacks!  Remarkable!”  The Doctor said with a broad grin as he braced the wide-eyed Winchester’s arm. “Unfortunately for this plucky winged army, they weren’t lucky enough to have your humanity.  I amplified my own telepathic broadcasting field and they were receiving.  They just got a taste of what I see every minute.”  The Doctor tapped his forehead with a finger.

             “Which is?”

             “All of space and time.  What was.  What is.  What may come to be. The Time Vortex.”

             “Well… it sure worked.” Sam said warily, looking around at the devastation a single move had caused.  Nearly all the angels had fled now.

             “Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so resourceful…” The Doctor said somewhat sadly.

             “Hey Doc, you do know how to fix this, don’t you?” Dean called to them.  He was on the ground, kneeling next to a familiar figure.   The Time Lord and Sam made their way over to him.

             “Who is he?” The Doctor inquired of the Winchesters.

             “A freaking idiot, that’s who,” Dean said tersely.  “but he’s been through a lot with us and we owe him more than just leaving him here to burn up in the head.”  The Doctor looked between Sam and Dean, waiting for more.

             “He’s… a friend.  A good one.” Sam elaborated.  The Doctor bit his lip, thoughtfully.

             “Well I should be able to repair the damage… but it’ll take time…and somewhere safe to work.  So now would be the best time for speedy getaway.” He said, looking over the angel.  “That is your car over there, is it not?” The Doctor inquired of the elder Winchester, who nodded curtly.  “Excellent.  Go ahead and put the angel in the car.”  Dean nodded again and hoisted Castiel up in his arms.

             “Doctor, your friend isn’t in that good shape either…” Sam called from a little ways off.  He was at Sherlock’s side, and his statement was certainly true.

             “Oh no...” The Doctor moved swiftly over to Sam and knelt next to the detective.  With his mind scrambled as it was, Sherlock had failed to heed Crowley’s warning: he had not shut his eyes when the angels arrived.  And it was not a pretty sight.  No pun intended.

             “This is my fault…” The Doctor said, staring at the gruesome mess that used to be Sherlock’s eyes.   For once, the Time Lord was unable to think of anything to do.  Sam steadied him with a hand.

             “Don’t worry… If you can get Cas up and running, he can fix him.” Sam told him reassuringly.  The Time Lord broke from his reverie and looked at Sam, who gave him a encouraging smile.  The Doctor nodded, shaking his head slightly to clear it, before standing up again.

             “Right.  Then let’s get him in the car next to the angel… but say that reminds me,” The Doctor said, turning around in place as Sam hoisted Sherlock, “Where’s Canton?”

             “Who?” Dean asked, slightly confused as he returned from the car.

             “Er, Crowley.  The demon.” The Doctor corrected himself, still looking around.  All the angels were gone now, and the demon was nowhere to be found.  Dean rolled his eyes.

             “Wherever he is, he’s not worth our time.  He’ll show up eventually.” He informed the Time Lord, as he ducked into the car.

             “I-” The Doctor was hesitant, but Sam turned to support his brother.

             “Dean’s right… if there’s one thing we know about Crowley, it’s that he’s impossible to get rid of forever.”

             “Well… alright…” The Doctor said at last, giving in.  Following the Winchesters lead, he climbed in to the backseat of the car, next to their two comatose party members.

            “Everyone in?” Dean asked, glancing in the rear view mirror.  “Alright.  Let’s get this show on the road.”

            The Impala’s engine roared to life and Dean changed gears.  Turning the wheel, the elder Winchester pulled a 360 and started out on the road back to town.  As the landscape flashed by outside the window, the Doctor couldn’t help but feel like he was in a completely foreign horse race, stuck in the lane with six feet of mud, moving impossibly slowly.  He missed his ship.  He missed his companions.  This whole adventure was so… different.

            “Say Doc it’s gonna be a bit of a drive…” Dean said suddenly.  The Doctor looked up from his thoughts.  He had been expecting a question session.

            “I hope you don’t mind classic rock.” Dean informed him, not even bothering with the pretense of giving the Time Lord a choice.

            “I hope you don’t mind my singing.” He returned half-heartedly.  Sam laughed at this, startling the Doctor into a smile.  Perhaps the car ride wouldn’t be so long after all.

…

            “Alright.  Dean, set the angel on the first bed.  Sam, Sherlock on the second.” The Doctor directed the Winchesters as they hauled their respective limp forms into the small motel room.

            “I still can’t believe this is THE Sherlock Holmes.” Sam reiterated.  The younger Winchester was, no surprise, a fan of the books and had a hard time grasping the idea that the character really existed.

            “I can’t believe a guy that’s three part feathers can be this heavy.” Dean said, coming in behind his brother, struggling under the weight of the unconscious angel.

            “That’s the spirit Dean.  Watch your feet!  You’re stepping on his wings!” The Doctor told him cheerily.  Dean looked up.

            “You can see his wings?” the elder Winchester asked, incredulous.

            “Sure I can!  They’re not exactly small!” The Doctor gestured to the empty space all around Castiel, where, to the Winchesters, there was nothing.  Upon the Winchesters’ stares, he realized he must have missed the fact that they could not in fact, see the said celestial aspect of their friend.  Looking between them and the unconscious angel, the Time Lord pointed to himself.  “Higher dimensional being from outer space and all that.  One of the perks is seeing on higher dimensional levels.”  He explained.

            “What do they look like?” Sam asked curiously, clearly very interested.

            “There sort of like the bit that didn’t quite fit inside the vessel.  They stick out the back.  Glowing and all.  Still, quite pretty, if you’re into that sort of thing.  Maybe a what, 18 foot wingspan?  Impressive.” The Doctor said, nodding to himself thoughtfully.

            Straining, Dean finally heaved Castiel’s limp form onto the bed and stood aside, breathing heavily as he turned to the Doctor.

            “Okay. You’re up Doc.” Dean told the Doctor, still panting slightly.  The Time Lord was already moving forward, scanning the angel with his screwdriver as he sat down on the bed next to the trench-coated figure.

            “What is that thing?” Sam asked the Doctor, nodding to the sonic.

            “This?  Oh, glad you asked!  It’s a Sonic Screwdriver!” the Doctor said, proudly showing the Winchesters.

            “What does it do?”  Dean said, looking at it critically.

            “It’s like a screwdriver… but it works by issuing sonic waves.” The Doctor said, gesturing to mimic waves with a hand.  The Winchesters both still looked skeptical.

            “I’m… not a fan of violence.  I prefer a tool to a weapon any day.” The Doctor explained, turning back to the angel.  “And this is the tool of all tools.  Opens doors, takes readings, flips switches, fixes cabinets…”

            Dean looked at Sam, who shrugged.

            “Well what’s the prognosis Doc?” Dean asked, cutting to business.

            “Good, if I can just lock onto his telepathic receiver again…” The Doctor glanced at some readings on the screwdriver and then held a hand to his own forehead. “Hmmmm… I think I’ve got it…”

            Leaning forward, the Doctor swabbed a finger across Castiel’s perspiring forehead and tasted it.  The Winchesters exchanged glances.

            “Yup.  That’s it.  Tastes like religion.” The Doctor pulled a face.  “Well here goes nothing!”  Taking him by the sides of his head, the Doctor pulled Castiel close and smacked his own forehead against the angel’s.  The resulting crash seemed to resound through the motel room, as the lights flashed and the something akin to thunder rumbled.

            “Ohhhhh, I said I’d never do that again…” The Doctor mumbled, standing shakily, holding his own head.  On the bed, Castiel’s eyes snapped open and he sat up, putting a hand to his brow.

            “What-” the angel stopped mid-sentence as he noticed the Winchesters, the Doctor, and his surroundings. “What exactly did I miss?”  Dean smiled.

            “Good to have you back Cas.” the hunter said genuinely.

            “Where have I been?” Cas inquired, still confused.

            “The Time Vortex, I’d say.  It’s a bit of a confusing place, but I think you’ll be alright.” The Doctor came forward again, grabbing Castiel by the chin and scrutinizing the eyes.   “Yeah you look ship shape!… Hell of a mind you got there!  Full of Science and Spells, and yet empty of common sense!… and your intentions, my they’re pure aren’t they!” The Doctor said, eyes twinkling.  “You’re much more the type of angel I imagined.”

            “Who… are you?” Castiel asked, pulling away.

            “Ah.  Right.  Introductions!  I’m the Doctor!  Not a real Doctor mind, more of a… honorary title.  I fix things.  Not people… though I guess I have fixed a few people in my day, yourself included, but I mostly fix situations.  As in terrible situations, situations where we could all end up violently killed, not unlike the one we are in currently!” The Doctor said with a beaming smile.  Cas simply stared at him.

            “Also: I’m not God.  You seemed to have that a little confused earlier.” The Doctor added.

            “But your presence…” Castiel started, the Doctor shook his head, holding up his hands.

            “Time Lord.” He said pointing to himself.  “From a planet called Gallifrey.  Not surprised you haven’t heard of it, you angels tend to never leave heaven, let alone visit another planet besides Earth… Anyway, I’m a higher dimensional being and all that, not unlike you.  It’s why we both know each other to be more than just what we look like. ” The Doctor nodded to Castiel.

            Castiel tilted his head like a puppy, trying to take in this information.  Dean stepped forward.

            “Don’t think about it too hard.” The elder Winchester said, laying a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.  “It’s not really important at the moment.”

            “That’s debatable.” A new voice entered the mix.  The Doctor whirled around to find none other than Crowley sauntering into the room, having just appeared inside the door.

            “Canton!  You’re alright!” The Doctor moved over to the demon and grabbed him by the shoulder, looking him over worriedly.  “You don’t seem to have been effected by the time vortex… you must have a lower telepathic reception then the angels…”

            Crowley looked violated, having someone fussing over him, and he quickly shook the Doctor off.

            “I’m fine.  Just have a monster of a headache, which translates to a short temper.  Next time let me know before you unleash a shockwave of mental breakdowns.” Moving past the Time Lord, Crowley nodded to the others.  “Hello boys.  Castiel.  Unpleasantly necessary to see you, as always.”

            “Crowley.  What are you doing here?” Castiel asked darkly.

            “Haven’t they told you yet?  I’m the one who brought together this little boy band … speaking of which, where’s Miss Marple?” Crowley turned back to the Doctor.  A pained expression crossed the Time Lord’s face.

            “Oh that’s right!  Castiel, I have a little job for you.” The Doctor extended a hand and directed the angel over to the other bed.

            “Sherlock over here is in need of some medical attention… Sam and Dean are confident you can help us in that area.” The Doctor said tentatively, looking from the angel to the detective with the burned out eyes.  Castiel looked Sherlock over for a moment or two, before simply reaching down and placing two fingers on the detective’s forehead.

            A moment passed.  Nothing happened.

           “His mind seems to be in a state of turmoil.” Castiel informed the company.  Crowley once again gave the Doctor a look, which the Time Lord avoided.

           “Can’t you fix him?” Dean asked impatiently.

           “I could heal the wounds,” The angel admitted, “but I have already been severed from heaven’s power again, and I feel that the expenditure of power would be useless, as it would do little to help him.  What goes on in his mind… it is not an injury.  I do not know if there is a way to ‘fix’ it.” The angel informed them.

           The Doctor moved forward and looked Sherlock over again, scrutinizing him.  He scanned the detective with the sonic and quickly looked at the readings.  After a moment the Time Lord sighed and looked away, his face a mixture of disappointment and frustration.

           “I… suppose I could try rearranging his head from the inside…” Crowley offered after a moment.

           “NO.” Both of the Winchesters said instantly.  The Doctor shook his head in agreement.

           “It wouldn’t do any good.  Sherlock’s mind operated on a strict set of guidelines – it was his job, no, his life to know every rule of the game and how they could fit together to accomplish the impossible.  Now that we’ve introduced the fact that all those rules can and have been broken… essentially infinitely expanding the guidelines of what can and can’t be done… His mind has most likely collapsed in upon itself.” The Doctor said sadly.

           “If you knew this would happen, why exactly did you bring him?” Sam asked.

           “Well… I HAD hopes that he would be able to help me solve the problem of you two… but I suppose I was so focused on what I wanted that I neglected to consider who else might suffer in the process… ” The Doctor said, looking at Sherlock.

           “The problem of us?” Dean prompted.  At this the Doctor looked up.

           “Yes.  You two.  Or more specifically, whoever framed you.  You see, I wasn’t just chasing you for the fun.  I was trying to catch a murderer.”

           “A murderer?” Sam asked, bewildered.

           “In 1933 a very dear friend of mine was... murdered.  Stabbed, right in her own home.” The Doctor said quietly, pausing before continuing.  “I walked in, just as the villain was escaping.”

           “I’m sorry for your loss, but… what does that have to do with us?” Dean asked, though not without feeling. The Doctor looked up sharply.

           “The murderer was wearing your face.   He looked exactly like you.  Down to the cut of his jeans and the expression he wore.” The Doctor said, eyes hard.  Dean fell silent at this, not knowing what to say.

           “Well we’ve run into plenty of monsters before that could take on the form of another,” Sam interjected, breaking some of the tension, “Shifters, ghouls… leviathans…and all of them have a hobby of killing people.”

           “No, I have a feeling I already know what this one was…” the Doctor shook his head. “You see,” the Doctor paused, glancing at Castiel for a moment, “he had wings like your friend over there.” At this the Winchesters faces hardened.

          “An angel?  Are you sure?” Castiel broke his silence, his face serious.

          “He was a higher dimensional being, like you and I.  He had wings, and he could naturally time travel.” The Doctor said absentmindedly. “Does that sound familiar at all?”  Castiel was silent.

          “The trail he left was through time – it led me straight to central park where I spotted you two,” the Doctor gestured to the Winchesters, “and I guess was misled to overhear Sam mentioning Dean killing Amelia… somehow…” the Doctor said tiredly, rubbing his forehead.

          “Amelia… you mean Amy Pond?” Sam asked suddenly.  The Doctor looked up, his expression hardening.

          “You do know her?”

          Dean grew pale at the name as he realized he had indeed killed Amy Pond.  But before that train could derail, Sam stepped forward to intervene.

          “I’m assuming your Amy didn’t have a strict diet of lymph nodes?” Sam asked.  The Doctor looked very confused and Sam breathed a sigh of relief.  “I thought not.  The truth is yeah, Dean’s killed AN Amy Pond, but it was a brain-eating monster.  I’m fairly certain we’re talking about two different people.”

          The Doctor looked more at ease after this revelation.  But his face grew serious again after a moment of thought.

         “Well.  That certainly explains how you falsely implicated yourself in Central Park.  But that still leaves the whole problem of a possibly angelic time-travelling doppelganger who, I’m afraid, clearly has a sizable intellect.  He certainly knew how to waste all our precious time by leading me directly back to you in order to lay a false trail.”

         Neither Dean nor Sam looked particularly happy at this news.  Crowley coughed , interrupting them all.

         “Let’s not forget that we ALSO have an Apocalypse on our hands.  But I mean, it’s nothing important.  We can worry about solving a little game of Clue first… it’s not as if all our necks are on the guillotine or anything.” the demon interjected sarcastically.

         “Apocalypse?” The Doctor prompted, still behind on that subject. 

         “Showdown between Michael the Archangel from heaven and Lucifer the Archangel from Hell.  It’s just the foretold big bang that will destroy half the planet and kill a ton of people.” Sam quickly summarized for the Doctor.  “We stopped it before, but it seems to be back on track.  Still, things are different this time.” Sam returned to his conversation with Crowley, “This time we have him!” He gestured to the Doctor.

         “Yes and clearly they’ve taken his box.  The most valuable thing in the universe in the hands of people who want nothing more than to squash us into oblivion!”

         “How much damage can they do with the box?” Dean turned, asking the Doctor.

         “Theoretically?  An infinite amount.  The TARDIS was unlocked behind me, when we were transported to the other dimension, which is basically like leaving the keys in the ignition.   From there you’re only a hop, skip, and a jump away from infinitely altering time, if they could figure out how to make it work.” The Doctor said worriedly.  Castiel merely looked confused.

         “What is this…box you all speak of?” The angel was still not completely caught up on everything.  The Doctor eyed him for a moment, before beginning his story.

            “My species… the Time Lords… we don’t really have that many special supernatural abilities like you angels.  Sure we have regeneration and two hearts and such, but mostly, are greatest asset are our minds.  Sort of like humans actually.  But much more advanced, obviously.” The Doctor explained.  “No offense meant of course.” the Time Lord nodded to the Winchesters, both of whom looked as if they hadn’t even realized they were being insulted.

            “You have two hearts?” Sam asked curiously.  The Doctor nodded absentmindedly.

            “Anyway… the TARDIS was the crowning achievement of the Time Lords.  Time and Relative Dimension in Space.  A ship that could go anywhere at any time and be anything.   It’s infinity contained inside a set of walls, and it’s fueled by a dying star trapped in a time stasis field – basically infinite energy.  With it… well you could theoretically do anything.  Alter time.  Alter the universe… anything.” The Doctor explained to Castiel.

            “And now Lucifer has it.” Crowley interjected.  Castiel took a moment to digest this information.

            “But why would the devil need a time travelling space ship?  I mean, he’s an archangel.  He can already time travel and move through space.” Sam pointed out.

            “Maybe he didn’t know what it was capable of.  I mean… he hasn’t exactly had a meet and greet with the Doc, has he?” Dean suggested.

            “No, but he was let out by another Time Lord.” Crowley told them.  At this the Doctor looked up.

            “That’s impossible.  I’m the last Time Lord.” He told the demon firmly.

            “Well, hate to burst your bubble but you’re not.  The whole reason we’re in this mess is because someone who gave off a presence just like yours in nature strolled into hell the other day and let Michael AND Lucifer out of their cage.”  The Doctor was silent at this for a moment, until he spoke again.

            “The fact we haven’t already been erased from existence is the best encouraging thought we have at the moment… it promotes the idea that either the bad guys have not and will not have the chance to use the TARDIS to alter time significantly.” The Doctor said thoughtfully.  “Which means future us must have stopped them from doing so by possibly reclaiming the TARDIS.”

            The others all took a good minute to try and understand this line of thought.

            “Well, I don’t know about you, but encouraging thoughts are rarely enough to satisfy me.  Tangible progress tends to be the only thing that makes me feel better.  So might I suggest we form a plan on how to at least start remedying this masterpiece of a disaster?” Crowley suggested.  The Doctor nodded.

            “Now I know we have more than one thing on our plate to deal with here, but I’m just gonna go out on a limb and say that the TARDIS is probably our biggest problem at the moment.” Crowley said. “Before we can even consider our next moves, it’s imperative that we repossess it before Lucifer figures out how to permanently screw us all from existence with it.

            “I agree.” Castiel backed up the demon.  “If the box is as powerful a weapon as he says it is, it has no place in the hands of Heaven or Hell.”

            “Well, despite the fact it is unlocked, it still has a number of safety features that will hopefully keep any would-be hijackers busy for a while.  Even then, they’d still have to figure out how to drive it.” the Doctor said thoughtfully.  “But all of that would amount to nothing if there was indeed another Time Lord.”

            “So we need to get it back.  Easier said than done.” Dean said, folding his arms.  “I mean, we don’t even have a clue where it is.”

            “It would appear the angels do not have it.” Castiel interjected, holding a hand to his head, presumably listening to angel radio.  Sam shook his head.

            “Lucifer was the last one with it when we left.”

            “So that means the demons then.” Crowley said, looking slightly put off, “Perfect.  They’ve probably wrecked the thing.”

            “No no.  If they had done that, the solar system would be gone by now.” The Doctor said distractedly.  “But that still doesn’t help us as to where it is.”

            “Oh yes it does.” Crowley said with another disgruntled look.  “I’ll give you one guess: it starts with an ‘H’ and ends with an ‘ELL’.  Not a popular vacation spot.  Chronic trouble with the Air Conditioning.”

            “You really think they took the TARDIS to Hell?” Sam asked Crowley.  The demon shrugged.

            “Hey, if I were still King, which I technically am by the way, and I had something THAT powerful that I needed to hide from angels and Winchester alike…”

            “We should go retrieve it then.” Castiel said immediately, standing up.  But Crowley put out a hand to stop the angel.

            “Hold on to your trench-coat.  You may have been to Hell a couple of times, but you haven’t been there when Lucifer’s in charge.  When our big ‘Daddy’ is running things, demons gain a whole new level of fervor and efficiency.  They’re still not very smart, but they’re very VERY dedicated, organized... you might even call them competent.”

            “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.” Castiel said, eyeing the demon.

            “I’m saying we can’t just walk in there.” Crowley told the angel.  “I’m saying your typical lack-luster tactics of walking and smiting aren’t going to work this time.  I might even be going so far as to say, I don’t think you should come on this ride.”

            Castiel and both Winchesters opened their mouths to disagree, but Crowley held up his hands.

            “It’s not that I don’t trust you – you already know I don’t – it’s just common sense.  This is going to be, dare I pretend we can pull it off, a stealth mission.  And I don’t mean to hurt your feathered feelings, but I have never, in the entirety of my long-lived life, seen an angel pull off the stealth routine.” Crowley snapped.

            “…He has a point.” Sam said, unhappy to be siding with the demon.  “Cas’s presence alone is enough to set off the alarm bells in Hell.”

            “So who would you have go?” Dean asked, turning to Crowley, eyes narrowed.

            “Ideally?  Just the one who can drive the thing.” Crowley pointed to the Doctor. “However seeing as it is Hell, I suppose I ought to go as well, seeing as I’m the only one who knows my way around the place…”

            “Oh wow.  You alone with our only asset.  That sounds like a great idea.” Dean said, throwing his hands up.

            “Tell us why exactly we can’t come?” Sam asked the demon.  Crowley rolled his eyes.

            “You’re Winchesters.  Do I need to elaborate further?  It may come as a complete surprise to you, but your activities tend to draw the attention of heaven and hell alike.  And for the sake of something running smoothly for once, I’d prefer to have that attention directed somewhere else.”

            “That’s a sad excuse.  Even for you.” Dean said, not buying it.

            “No Dean, I think he’s right for this one.” the Doctor said, coming forward. “A huge party trying to infiltrate any place is historically not awesome.  Besides, there are other things that need immediate attention.” The Time Lord turned to glance at Sherlock who fidgeted and turned in his state, muttering.

            “What, you want us to babysit the world’s greatest detective?” Dean asked, frowning.

            “Fix him was what I had in mind…” the Doctor said thoughtfully.  “Whoever is organizing the other side clearly has something of a mastermind.  We might find ourselves to be desperately in need of one such genius ourselves… if only to trace the spider web lines back to the culprit.”

            “Cas already said…” Sam started but stopped as Sherlock’s mutters grew a bit more distinguishable.

            “…Richard Brook… suicide… fake genius… John…”

            The new compiled Team Free Will stood there, watching the comatose detective for a moment, lost in thought.

            “…trauma… John…”

            “Who’s John?” Dean asked his brother.

            “I dunno… Watson maybe?” Sam guessed, still feeling weird about dealing with fictional characters being ‘real’.  The Doctor had an epiphany.

            “THAT’S IT!!!” The Doctor exclaimed excitedly.  The others jumped at his sudden outburst.

            “Care to enlighten the rest of us?” Crowley asked with a frown.

            “Watson!  Don’t you see?  He’s the answer!!!” the Doctor said happily, as if he had solved the greatest puzzle in the world.

            “I don’t understand…” Castiel began but the Doctor quickly explained.

            “Sherlock’s mind… it’s shattered right?  Shattered because all the rules he plays by have been broken.  He has no firm ground to stand on – and unfortunately he needs such a firm foundation for his mind to operate 24/7.”

            “So…?” Dean prompted.

            “So what is the one GREATEST source of stability that Sherlock Holmes always elects to keep at his side?”

            “Watson.” Sam said, realizing.  “You’re saying if we find his Watson, we may be able to fix his head.”

            “In my experience a sturdy friendship has proven time and time again to be the best of all cures.” the Doctor said with a satisfied smile.

            “Right.  Well, at least that gives you lot something to do besides twiddle your thumbs and be useless as usual.” Crowley said, moving towards the door.  “Do us a favor and make a bit of noise while your out – keep the heat off us.”

            “You want us to create a diversion?” Dean asked.

            “Give the boy a prize.” Crowley said patronizingly.  “If it’s not too much trouble.  Just make sure it’s far away from us.  With the attention of the various hosts split, we might have a shot at this.”

            The company stood for a moment, reviewing their motley plan.  It seemed sound enough, though a bit unusual for all their tastes.  Still, a strange plan was better than no plan at all.

            “Doctor?” Crowley asked, hand on the door knob.  “The sooner we go, the sooner we’ll return.”

            “Right.” the Doctor acknowledged, with one last glance at Sherlock, he moved to follow the demon, who went out the door.

            “You’ll take care of yourselves, won’t you?” the Time Lord asked the Winchesters and Castiel concernedly.  Dean looked surprised at the Doctor’s concern.  Sam smiled.  Castiel was merely confused.

            “We’ve made it through worse.  Trust us.  Just watch out for yourself.  And…” Sam paused, uncertain.  He looked as if he wanted to say something else.

“…Yes?” The Doctor asked.

“Be careful.  Hell…isn’t a nice place.” Sam said after a moment.  The Doctor smiled.

            “I imagine not.  Well, good luck!  I’ll see you all again soon I hope!” And with that the Time Lord left, closing the door behind him.


	15. A Doctor's Appointment

SuperWho **Lock**

 

            John Watson’s life was, for all intents and purposes, 256% normal.

           Every morning at 7:30 he got up and helped himself to some tea, occasionally courtesy of Mrs. Hudson.  Then he would take a shower.  Get dressed.  Go to work.  From 9 to 4 he listened to people’s problems and tried to determine whether or not they were dying or if they simply hadn’t followed his instructions from last time.  By 5 he was back home.  From 5 to 6 he stared at the telly.  At 6:30 he ate dinner.  The rest of the night was spent staring at his blog, the following of which had declined since… well since he had lost the reason to blog.  At 10 he retired for a night of restless sleep.

            It wasn’t really a life to be honest.  Just a boring, predictable, monotonous existence.

            It was understandable then, that when this particular Tuesday rolled around, John expected and was prepared for nothing out of the ordinary.

            Suffice to say, he was unprepared.

            To begin with, the day started out on a bad enough foot.  The toaster was broken, and gave him three successive pieces of burnt inedibility.  The paper that greeted him with his coffee featured nothing less than 4 stories about murders with Lestrade’s name all throughout the article.  After breakfast he simply could not put his hands on a complete pair of matching socks with no holes.  When he set foot out the door, he was running so late he was sure he would miss the tube.

            Walking along at a hurried pace that was almost a jog, John tried to make up for the lost time.  As it happened, whatever forces governed the universal force of luck had already decided that his efforts were to be in vain.  This became apparent as the good doctor passed large glass shop window featuring-

            **_CRASH_**

            In a spectacular explosion of glass and bits of whatever the display had been, two figures tumbled out right onto John.  In a tangle of limbs and shock, John groaned and attempted to right himself.

            “Oh god, I’m so sorry!” one of the culprits struggled to his feet and moved forward to help John up.  His accent was American.

            “It’s… fine…” John struggled to gain his bearings, as the store’s alarms were going off rather loudly.  When he finally did clear his eyesight, he got his first look at the stranger.  One adjective stood out above everything else: GIANT.  The stranger must have had a good 25 centimeters on him.

            “I…” John stuttered, but he was cut off.

            “Sam.” the other man said somewhat urgently.  Both John and ‘Sam’ turned to see the owner of the voice, a good-looking man likewise dressed in plaid and denim and jacket, kneeling with a hand to his bleeding head.

            “We should move.” Sam nodded and helped him to his feet.

            “Uh, I’m a… a doctor.” John said, eyeing the blood seeping out through the other man’s fingers.

            “No, it’s fine.  I’ll, uh, take him to a hospital.  Sorry again.” Sam quickly dismissed John, whose suspicions were suddenly aroused tenfold.

            _You’re not in this business anymore…_ His inner voice reminded him.  _You have work to get too…_

            At this point the owner of the store had come out and begun to argue with Sam, who was profusely apologizing.  Reluctantly, John turned to go, every instinct he had gained from his medical and sleuthing career screaming at him to stay.

            But he did have work to get to.  And he wasn’t in that business anymore.  He would never be in that business again.

            He missed the tube, as expected.  Eventually he made it to work, but he was about half an hour late.  For the first four appointments his mind wandered over the strange duo he had run into that morning.  But when the fifth appointment showed up with a psychiatric escort and a bicycle wheel stuck on his head, John’s mind was driven from the enigma.

            After lunch (he took himself out) he returned to his office to have the secretary, a nice girl by the name of Amanda, inform him a man from the American FBI had called asking if he worked there.

            “What?!  Why?!” John demanded, somewhere between shocked and concerned.

            “Well…” Amanda said thoughtfully, “I’m not sure.  He wouldn’t say.  But he certainly wasn’t calling to schedule a check-up.”

            Decidedly concerned, John returned to his office.  The American FBI?  After him?  Why?

            The question bothered him for the rest of the afternoon.  By the time he was ready to head home, he had come to the inescapable conclusion it must have been something related to Sherlock and one of his cases.

            “But the FBI aren’t international…” John muttered to himself as he waved a quick goodbye to Amanda.  John felt the old familiar craving for answers that used to be part of his everyday life.  Sherlock had that peculiar hobby of withholding solutions in the annoying game of ‘Let John Figure it Out’.  But now… well, now he didn’t have to work to extricate the answers from his friend.

            Though John was lost in his thoughts and very muddled, he fortunately would not have to wait very long for answers, as an ambush was waiting for him just outside the building.

            “Dr. Watson?” a familiar voice said behind him as the door left his hand.  John turned.  From there for the next several minutes, everything seemed to proceed in slow motion.

            John recognized them instantly, even though now they were clad in impeccable suits.  The two men from this morning.  The surprise of recognition registered on their faces as well.  In that instant, John knew they were not only the ones who had called, but they were definitely not FBI.

            And they were probably not here to have a cup of tea and a chat.

            John fingered his cellphone in pocket.  By the look of them, the men were probably armed.  He doubted he could get a call off to the police before being shot.  John felt the familiar surge of adrenaline that always came with a situation such as the one he was in.  His head cleared somewhat, and he quickly decided upon a plan; John took the course of a man of action, albeit stupid action:  He turned and darted into the alleyway.

            He didn’t have to look behind him to know the two men were in close pursuit.

           “Wait!   We just want to talk!” ‘Sam’ called.   “It’s about Sherlock!”

           "I’ll bet it is!” John called back.  Suddenly out of a side alley, the second man crashed into him, in half a tackle, half a trip.  Twisting around, John scrambled to his feet, as did the stranger.  As it became clear there would be no immediate successful escape, John felt him military training kick into gear.  He brought up his hands, bracing for a fight and hoping they didn’t have a gun with a silencer.

           “Look… there’s no need for this.  We just want to talk.” Sam reiterated as he approached, panting slightly.

           “We don’t have time for that.” the other said impatiently and reached out to grab John’s arm.  In a quick succession of moves, John fended him off.

           “Dean!” Sam protested.

           John knew he was outnumbered, so he didn’t wait for the next attack.  With a swift jab to the face, he caught ‘Dean’ off guard and hooked a foot around the other’s leg to get him down.  Unfortunately Dean was not only bigger, but ready for him.  He sidestepped the leg sweep and returned with a kick of his own which sent John stumbling.

           “You’ve had… military training…” John gasped as he quickly regained his footing and whirled around.

           “Dad was a marine.” Dean said, eyes hard.  “Taught us everything he knew.”

           “Bloody Americans…” John muttered, trying to keep his eyes on both of them at the same time.  Dean was still clearly in fight mode, but Sam was still trying to reason.

           "Dr. Watson please.  We’re not here to fight.  We need your help.” Sam implored.

           “Oh yeah I’m sure.  I’ve always wanted to help men who go around impersonating federal agents of other countries.  Bug off.” John retorted.  Sam looked peeved.

           “I told you it wouldn’t work.” he told Dean with a glare.  “Look.  You clearly don’t trust us. I wouldn’t either.  But I’m gonna be honest with you and lay our cards on the table,” Sam started, fixing his eyes upon John.  “Your friend Sherlock is in trouble and you’re the only person who can help us.”

            At this John put his hands down.

           “What the hell are you talking about?” He asked after a moment.

           “Sherlock?  Sherlock Holmes.  He’s in trouble and he needs your help.” Sam repeated.  John looked at him like he was an alien.  After another minute he found his voice.

           “If you think you’re being funny…” he tried to get his mouth around the words, but trailed off.  Sam still had a serious look on his face.

           “I swear we wouldn’t be bothering you if-” Sam started genuinely but was quickly cut off.

           “Sherlock is dead.” John said with a quiet fury.   “I watched him die myself.  Now there’s not much I can do for him, is there?”

           Both Sam and Dean looked genuinely surprised and exchanged glances, which made John pause for a moment.  But soon he steeled himself again.

           “Now if there’s nothing more, I’ll be going.” John said, turning to leave.  But Sam reached out again to stop him.

           “Wait!... I’m, well… It’s weird that I’M the one to break the news to you but…” Sam began awkwardly.

           “Sherlock isn’t dead.  We left him about a half an hour ago.” Dean said.  John felt an icy sharpness in his stomach, but he pushed it away.  He had no time to deal with that poisonous hope again.

           “Don’t give me that crap.  I watched him jump from a four story building in plain sight.” John told them angrily.

           “Then he faked his death!” Sam told the angry doctor, “You know him, how brilliant he is.  If anyone could pull off that trick, it would be Sherlock!”

_Trick, yes.  This is a trick._

           John paused again.  The feeling in his stomach could not be pushed away now.  He felt like he was going to be sick.

           “It’s a long, LONG story, but we need to take you to him…” Sam began again.

           “I don’t know who you work for… Moriarty… someone else… just… just leave me alone.” John pushed past them and hurried down the alleyway.  He half wished that they would pursue him and reassure him that they were indeed telling the truth, but they did not.

           Disoriented, he somehow found himself back at Baker Street after a dazed trip through the city streets.

_Sherlock.  Alive.  Is it possible?_

_No…_

           For the rest of the evening, he stared at his blog thinking.  He didn’t eat – he couldn’t eat if he wanted to.  He just sat.  Thinking.

           If Sherlock had been alive, he would have tried to contact him, wouldn’t he?  I mean, he was his best friend… wasn’t he?

            John contemplated calling Mycroft, but he knew there would be no point.  There was really no point in doing anything.  The strange pair was merely out to get revenge on Sherlock and would have to settle for the next best thing – tormenting those who survived him.

            Either that or they were crazy.

            Probably both.

**. . .**

            For the 256th time, John turned over in his bed to stare at the ceiling. He knew it was stupid, but he at least wanted to try.  No, he would not be sleeping tonight.  He probably wouldn’t be sleeping tomorrow either.  It had taken him weeks before to get back to normal sleep schedule, but now… now the pain was once again fresh and stinging.  He would have to invest in some sleeping drugs tomorrow.

            **_Click_**

            The noise was almost imperceptible, but to John, whose ears were trained by military and sleuth alike, it was as loud as a shot. 

            Someone had just picked the lock on the door to his flat.

            John lay as still as possible.  Any movement now would alert the trespasser to his presence, and maybe even his awakened state.  As he lay there with his heart beating out a Rossini overture, he strived to listen to the soft tread of footsteps and the occasional creak of the floorboard as the intruder came closer.

            No voices.  No moving objects.

            They were here for him.

             John braced himself for the coming fight.  It would be dark and dirty, but he might be able to make it out the window…

            Out of nowhere the hand clamped a damp cloth over his mouth.  As the smell of chloroform hit his nose and the blackness of the room closed in on him, John realized it was too late to try anything.

            As he fell into darkness, his last thoughts were of Sherlock, and how he might just be seeing his dearly departed friend again, albeit sooner than expected.


	16. Perdition

**Super** WhoLock

 

            It wasn’t as hot as the Doctor expected.  In fact, it was actually quite cool.  Cool and dim.

            They had arrived in a shadowy corridor that looked reminiscent of a path leading to a poorly funded public school gymnasium that might have been abandoned in the recent year.  The seedy lights flickered brighter every once in a while, as if in a pointless attempt to restore some former glory of the place.  And as always per Crowley’s design, barely audible strains of Blue Danube could be heard echoing around.

            “Ready to move on?  Or do you need more time take in the architecture?” Crowley asked touchily.  The demon could not deny he was mildly peeved; it was a rare occasion, him escorting a guest (that **_he_** had invited) to his domain – even rarer that it was a guest he respected and desired to impress – but this unsightly corner was all he had to show off.

            “Lead the way Canton!” The Doctor said, looking around curiously.  Crowley watched him for a moment, trying to decide if this was such a good idea.  Then he turned and led the way down the corridor.

            Hell was quiet, for a town that had just had its Number 1 return.  They met no one as they made their way through a series of indistinguishable hallways, and only the occasional echo of a far distant cry made it to their hearing.  The Doctor was likewise unusually quiet.  Crowley was uncertain if it was the setting that was having an effect on the Time Lord, or if it was just that this was the first time they were alone since Crowley revealed his true nature.

            “What’s the matter, damnation got your tongue?” Crowley asked at length, unable to bear the silence.

            “Yes and no.” The Time Lord replied unhelpfully.  At a look from the demon, he elaborated.

            “I have been alive for almost a thousand years, but in all my travels across Space and Time I have never been here.  For a while I didn’t even believe it existed…” The Doctor said thoughtfully.

            “Forgive me if I didn’t decide to capitalize on tourism.  The only tickets here are intentionally one way.” Crowley told him.  The Doctor frowned but said nothing.  Crowley couldn’t help but smile to himself again – the Time Lord was rather predictable in some aspects.

            “Still, I hope it’s not too much of a letdown.” Crowley continued.  “It wasn’t always this nice you know.  Used to be quite the sex torture dungeon.  Infernos, torture, and entrails everywhere.  Messy.” Crowley said, pulling a face.

            “What happened?” the Doctor inquired curiously.

            “Well as fun as the old place was, there was a fundamental problem with the running structure.  I’ll let you in on a little secret of the biz; there are only three types of people who wind up here: psychopaths, heroes, and idiots.  Mostly the first and last categories.  So a lot of the inmates are already deranged masochists perfectly happy to have their insides pulled out every day for arts and crafts.  So I had to derive a new and improved motif for torture – the queue.” Crowley gave the Doctor a wry smirk, and was rewarded with a half-smile in return.

            They continued on in some silence for a few minutes, before the Doctor broke it.

            “So you make the calls around here.” He noted.

            “Believe me, not as many as I would if I could.” Crowley said a tad crossly, as thoughts of extensive employee replacement crossed his mind for what was probably the 256th time this week.

            “But you are the ‘King of Hell’.” The Doctor said, not looking at Crowley.  Crowley stopped, trying to put together his words carefully.

            “Was King.  Now…” the demon waved a hand about uncertainly.  “My position is in all likelihood, completely gone now seeing as Lucifer has returned.  Again.” he acknowledged unhappily.

            “What happened the first time?” the Doctor inquired as they continued walking.

            “Short version? I was the only one of my kind smart enough to realize that Lucifer was just as much bad news for us as he was for humanity.  So I threw my lot in with the Winchesters to get rid of him.  Worked surprisingly well in retrospect.”

            “Why…” the Doctor started but Crowley cut him off.

            “’…is Lucifer bad news for demons?’ What is this, déjà vu day?” Crowley asked no one in particular.  The Doctor gave him a confused look.  Crowley sighed.

            “I’ve just… I’ve had to explain this before to deaf ears.  To summarize, Lucifer may have _created_ demon-kind, but he isn’t one of us.  He’s an archangel – a flying monkey like those other lovely feathered playdates you met before.  Except unlike the others who pretend to tolerate humanity, he despises it to such an extent he rebelled against his kin, home, daddy, and set out on a plot to stamp humanity out like the filthy mud-monkeys they are etc., etc.  So.  Given that hatred of humankind, it’s not so much a leap to him hating us as well – hating and eventually exterminating.”

            “I… don’t follow you.” The Doctor said at length.  The words seemed terribly strange coming from the Time Lord’s mouth.  Crowley smiled coldly.

            “Of course you don’t.  Demonology is something just dark enough that you would rather not know it.”

            The Doctor matched his smile with a grim one of his own.

            “Try me.”

            “I’d love to give you all the juicy details Doctor, but I’d rather not have you lose focus.”

            “Well I’d rather you be a normal, good hearted bloke than a demon, but we don’t all get what we want, do we?” The Doctor said shrugging.  Crowley almost laughed.  It was incredulous how the Time Lord could focus on that detail so intensely.

            “You know what your problem is?” The demon king asked, glancing at the Doctor. 

            “I certainly have a feeling you’re about to tell me.” The Doctor said cheerily.

            “You have above everything else, a confidence in your ability to see people as they are; good or evil.  For you, everyone fits into two categories: those worth saving… and those who have condemned themselves.” Crowley said flatly.  Silence fell between them.  It was as if Crowley had taken a knife and sliced through the cheerful banter and exposed something that should have been left covered.

            “Our actions define us – the picture they paint is easy to see and interpret if you’ve been around as long as I have.” The Doctor replied quietly.  At this Crowley stopped and turned on the Doctor, inexplicable anger stirring in him.

            “The universe,” he said harshly, “has _NEVER_ been that simple.”

            The Doctor was silent, most likely bewildered by the demon’s sudden mood change.  He watched Crowley with a visible uncertainty.  A chord had been struck that had caused the demon to break his typical sarcasm for severity.  For his part, the Ex-King of Hell recovered himself and turned to move on in silence.  After a moment, the Doctor picked up his own pace and followed.

            After some time of walking in silence through the endless hallways, Crowley satisfactorily began to see the much desired change in the setting.  The walls were not that of a run-down gymnasium anymore – they were fine oak paneling.  The floor had become polished marble, and the walls and ceiling were getting wider as the hallway progressed.  The setting was quickly becoming more and more like a palace as they progressed.

            “We are getting close.” Crowley told the Doctor over his shoulder.  “And as tingly as that should make you, it also means we’re getting close to an eternity of torture should we manage to get ourselves caught.”

            The Doctor nodded curtly and produced the Sonic Screwdriver from inside his coat pocket.  As he flicked it open it gave off an erratic pulsing green light and a quiet hum that occasionally spiked loudly.  Pointing it in different directions, the Doctor muttered to himself a couple times, before turning back to Crowley.

            “It looks like the TARDIS is that way…” the Doctor gestured ahead diagonally through the wall.  “But…” the Doctor trailed off, examining the Sonic again with a furrowed brow.

            “But what?” Crowley asked impatiently.

            “But I’m getting peculiar readings…” the Doctor said distractedly, shaking the sonic and looking at it again.  After a moment, he shook his head and pocketed it.

            “It must be the super-charged energy of the dimensional atmosphere.” the Doctor said, looking unhappy.  Crowley motioned for the Doctor to hurry up.  They didn’t have time to waste.

            “It was my suspicion, now confirmed, that they would stow your fancy box in my personal vault.  It’s one of the most secure places in Hell, behind the cage of course – unfortunately you have to go through my office to get there…” Crowley told the Doctor, looking irked.

            “So what’s the trouble?  Frightened of your old corner office?  Old nightmares of paperwork haunting you?” the Doctor asked in a whisper as reached a corner.  Crowley checked for a clear way, and then moved on swiftly.  The Doctor followed

            “If only it were that poetic.  At first I thought we were just lucky, having not run into anyone on our way here… but we’ve been in the business sector of Hell for a bit now.  This place should be crawling with cross-road demons, confrontation unavoidable.  Yet here we are.  And this place is…” Crowley gestured.

            “Empty?” the Time Lord finished the demon’s sentence with a question as they lined up against another corner.  The demon peeked around and then pulled back hastily, sucking air in through his teeth.  There was a pair of demons.

            “Security, but it’s minimal.  It could be that the Winchesters have succeeded in drawing a great amount of attention to themselves, and that Hell is not expecting us, but then again they could’ve just substituted the decidedly useless idiot guards for the much more preferable multitude of traps and all sorts of fun stuff inside my office.” Crowley told him.

            “Well there’s only one way to find out…” the Doctor said with a winning smile.  And before Crowley could stop him, he slipped round the corner and strode toward the demons stationed at the entrance to Crowley’s office.

            “Lovely afternoon gents,” the Time Lord said with a cheeky grin.  The demons stared, not quite sure what to make of him.

            “Say, I’ve just come from the boss-man and he wants me to take a look at that lovely blue box thing – you know the thing, couldn’t have missed it – anyway I was just wondering if you could perhaps possibly let me through and maybe point me in the right direction?” the Doctor asked them beaming.  The demons glanced at each other and for a brief incredulous second Crowley thought the ridiculous plan had actually worked.  But then the second was over and both demons produced angel blades and advanced at the doctor who hastily ducked and backed up, instantaneously out of his element.

            “AAGH!  WAIT!  STOP-” The Doctor raised a hand to protect himself, but it was a futile gesture, for it neither would have protected nor did it need to: another angel blade suddenly forced its way through the chest of the first demon.  He looked down at it surprised as the other whirled around to face Crowley.  At the sight of the formal king of Hell, the demon’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack as smoke rushed out trying to escape.  With a grim smile, Crowley raised a hand with spread fingers and brought it down slowly.  The black smoke struggled but for all its efforts it was shoved back inside its host.  Without wasting any more time, Crowley rammed his blade into the second demon, who quickly crumpled to the ground.

            “No!” The Doctor cried instantly, causing Crowley to look up.

            “What?”

            “You didn’t have to KILL them!” The Doctor said, genuinely distressed.  Crowley rolled his eyes.

            “We have a schedule to keep.  And besides, they’re demons.  They’re worthless scum remember?” Crowley said unruffled.

            “What about the people they’re possessing?!” The Doctor asked distraught.

            “If they’re down here they’re already toast.” Crowley told him shrugging.  The Doctor did not comment further, but he continued to look upset.

            “Alright.  Now comes the sexy part.” Crowley said, turning to the open doorway the demons had been standing at.  Beyond the threshold was Crowley’s office.

            It was a nice enough place though, with ceiling to floor windows and paneled walls and floors.  The gorgeous mahogany desk sat in front of a roaring, and the windows showed a view that was decidedly not the Hell actually outside them.  To top everything off, the rug from the very first time he had met the Winchester’s covered on the ground.  Crowley was not the most sentimental of people, but he had kept this one treasure in pristine condition, after the devil trap had been scoured off of course.

            The Time Lord and demon stood at the threshold of the room, taking in the view before them.   The sight filled the demon king with a mixture of emotion.  Regardless of opinions held, anyone who heard the story of a climb from two bit Scottish tailor to King of Hell had to admit that Fergus MacLeod had climbed the ladder of supernatural hierarchy higher than any in the history of humanity.  He had achieved so much more than was humanly possible – from sewing to contending for cosmic power, from trading in cloth to owning the moon – it was so much more than what was expected, no, what was conceivably possible for any human.

            And yet… the corner office he had worked so hard to reach had turned out to be what?  A front row ticket for risking his neck on everything, every big play that went down, with no appreciation and no payoff.  From his time as the reigning monarch of Hell, Crowley had determined only one thing for certain, well two actually, and the first was a given: 1) demons were all moronic and 2) being a leader, whether elected official or tyrant, meant you take the risks and the blame for everything. 

            As the feeling of pride Crowley had for his office began to sour, defiled by thoughts of how quickly all that he had built up came tumbling down by way of disloyalty and circumstance, the Doctor broke in on his thoughts.

            “Well what are we waiting for?” the Doctor moved forward, but Crowley stopped him with a hand.

            “Do you ever listen?  The ‘fun stuff’ that I mentioned earlier, does not actually refer to anything that is in any way, shape, or form _fun_.” Crowley told him with a glare.  The Time Lord looked as if his feelings had been hurt at the demon’s reprimanding.

            “Now humans like to go technical – but demons, no, demons are very decidedly old school.  Blood sacrifice trumps technology every time.” Crowley told the Doctor, gaining some small twinge of satisfaction from the Time Lord’s mildly horrified look.

            “Unfortunately…” Crowley continued slowly, “This is my personal vault.”

            “You say that like I should know the implications of such a statement.”

            “In my… spare time… I regard the tricks and toys of the modern world just as valuable to understand and use as those of the ancient worlds.  As such, I put together a mixture of both genres to protect that which I care about.  I’m not sure what the imbecilic morons has the intelligence to do in my absence, but I do know what I had set-up before I left.  And it’s quite probable that the demons are now utilizing that very same system.  It took a lot to install – it takes very little to turn on.” Crowley told the Time Lord.

            “Listening.” The Doctor replied.

            “There are a variety of hex bags and spells protecting the vault itself, but those should be easily disarmed if we can reach them, since I put them together myself.  No, the hard part will probably be the human systems I installed, which are set to either set off the spells or alert all of Hell to our presence.  Either of which occurrence would mean our imminent demise.  Those systems are what we need to take out first.”

            “Great.  What are we looking at?” The Doctor pulled out his Sonic Screwdriver and spun it in hand.

            “A nightmare.” Crowley said seriously.  Look up at the corner over there.” The Doctor complied.  There was a sensor or camera of some sort perched in the corner area.  After a few seconds however, it suddenly popped out of existence.

            “The problem is that the system is ever changing – the whole office, when armed, is a puzzle box of alarms and sensors that rotate in and out of use – and in and out of being in the room actually.  I have them on a random teleportation loop with another room where they cycle out too when they’re not in use, or they need maintenance.” Crowley informed him.

            “The teleport loop is the key to the whole thing really.” The Demon continued at the Time Lord’s silence.  “Most professional thieves case a joint before they make the plan.  But the ever changing system makes sure that they’ll never have a complete idea of what to expect and be prepared to disable in the room.”

            It was at this point that Crowley noticed the Time Lord staring.

            “What?” The demon asked, suddenly self-conscious.

            “You designed this in you spare time?!”

            “I… had a specific set of people in mind I was trying to theoretically guard against.  Namely, people with higher IQs than the Winchesters.” The demon shrugged.

            “This is…” the Doctor searched for a word, “… ingenious!  I’ve seen a lot of vaults in my time but this one… you should go into this professionally!”

            “Focus Doctor.”

            “Right.  Well, as long as your magic teleportation works pretty much the same way as regular boring _scientific_ teleportation, we should be able to cancel the algorithmic loop with a signal from your fancy screwdriver and halt the cycle.  Then we can systematically shut down and/or foil each one.” The Doctor prompted the plan.  Crowley nodded.

            “I should be able to identify each system once you freeze them in place.” the demon confirmed.

            “Right.  Here goes.” the Doctor switched on the Sonic Screwdriver and extended it to its full length.  After a whir, one of the lights in the room shorted out with a flash.  Demon and Time Lord held their breath as they waited for a moment.  No one came, and there was no movement in the room.

            “Success?” The Doctor asked no one in particular.

            “I’d say, yeah.” Crowley decided.

            “How do you know so much about this sort of business anyway?” the Doctor asked absentmindedly as the demon pulled a phone from his pocket and began flicking through pictures of the different devices.  “Breaking, entering… security… what, were you in insurance in another life?”

            “Sometimes bad guys make the best good guys.” Crowley said with a cryptic smile.  And without waiting for the Doctor to fully process that gem, Crowley pointed across the room to a device perched on the wall.

            “Ultrasonic Motion Sensor.”

The Doctor raised the Sonic and pointed.  With a small spark the sensor was offline.

            “You know, a little background story might be helpful in this situation.”

             “Passive Infrared.  Two on that wall, one on this one.”

            “Not a whole life story, mind, just a little one.  Like where you learned all this fantastic knowledge.”

            “Top opposing corners have standard security cameras.”

            “I love stories, I really do.  Especially ones with a good heist involved.  Very exciting.”

            “That painting, that bookshelf, and those two corners all have focal point devices for a tomographic detection net.”

            “Might help explain the obvious paranoia.  Could be important to understand something later.”

            “Laser grid on the floor.”

            “What a lovely model too!  Ever disabled one of these before?  In a past life perhaps?”

            “I believe that’s it.  Should be everything.”  Crowley said, turning to the Doctor, who looked decidedly exasperated by the demon’s resistance to being forthcoming.  Crowley ignored the Time Lord’s frustration and surveyed the room thoughtfully.

            “We’re lucky the loop didn’t freeze the sonic vibration detectors on.”  Crowley told him.  “Now, we’re almost home free.  They probably added something of their own, but nothing like my security system.  It’ll be spells and wards, not further electrical systems… which means…” with a hesitant step, he stepped onto the smooth wooden floor of the office.

            “We should be good to go!” He turned to the Time Lord with a genuine smile, which the Doctor picked up himself.

            That was when the floor clicked.

            “Bollocks.” Crowley said instantly, smile vanishing. “Was that…?”

            “Pressurized panel.  Weight triggered looks like.” The Doctor crouched down, examining the floor beneath Crowley’s polished shoes.

            “Impossible.” Crowley said incredulously. “None of my men have the brains to think of this.  Who could have thought of this?!” Crowley snapped agitatedly.

            “Uh, just… don’t move.  That might very well just blow us to bits.” The Doctor warned him.

            “Oh well of COURSE I can’t move.  That would set the bloody thing off, wouldn’t it?!” Crowley hissed.  “Alarm or bomb, doesn’t matter.  We’re done for if it goes off.  Alarm would be slightly, worse, probably.  Can you do anything with your fancy poker?”

            “No, the panel is wood.” The Doctor said miserably.

            “Great.  Just great.  Defeated by the floor of my own office.  This is just wonderful.” Crowley spat angrily.

            “Can we… replace your weight with something else maybe?” The Doctor asked looking around.

            “Don’t be ridiculous, that only works in movies.” Crowley snapped. He turned away for a moment, then back again suddenly, eyes bright with an idea.

            “Can you hold me up from where you’re standing?” He asked the Doctor.

            “…hold you?” the Time Lord asked, confused.

            “Yes.  Hold me.  Support me.  Keep me standing upright on this blasted pressure plate.” Crowley snapped.

            “I… think so.” the Doctor said hesitantly.

            “Great.  Do that then.” Crowley told him.  Then his jaw went slack and thick red smoke poured forth, circling up and around as the demon left his meat suit.  The Doctor leaped forward to steady the now vacant form.  After all the smoke had exited, it looped around and plunged into the cracks of the floor at their feet.

            A moment passed.  Then another.  It was going on three minutes when the Time Lord was certain the demon had abandoned him.  Then there was another click and the familiar red smoke surged upward from the floor, spiraling up and back into the body.

            “There.  All taken care of.” Crowley said confidently to the Doctor, after he was restored.

             “You know, for being damned souls, that smoke business sure seems to come in handy more often than not.” The Doctor said cheerfully relieved.

            “Not as handy as a flying, teleporting time machine.” Crowley told him.  He proceeded to move swiftly about the room to various nooks and crannies, producing Hex bags as he went.  After he had collected what he deemed to be all of them, he piled the lot on the desk and burned them with a wave of his hand.  Turning, he likewise waved his hand in a broad sweep aimed across the entirety of the room.  In front of their eyes, sigils and wards appeared all over the wall for a moment, before they were inexplicably burned off from their core.

            “And that…” Crowley said satisfactorily, “Is everything.  Shall we?” He gestured to the fireplace.

            “After you, my dear demon.” the Doctor said with another smile.  Crowley took the cue and led the way.  With a snap of his fingers, the flames in the fireplace went out.

            “Et per sanguinem meum, aperi.” Crowley muttered, before slicing his hand open and holding it out into the fireplace.

            “Isn’t it a bit risky… using your blood?” The Doctor asked in a low tone, almost morbidly intrigued.

            “There’s no other way.  It has to be high ranking demon blood and-” Crowley began but the Doctor cut him off.

            “Why don’t you possess me and do it then?  The mixing up of possessee might throw them off.” The Time Lord offered.

            “I- don’t think that would work actually.” Crowley said, suddenly put off by the unexpected offer.  Who offered themselves to be possessed?

            “Humans are what we possess – I happened to be able to possess you because Time Lords are very like humans physically… but when you get down to actually anatomy, the DNA of the bloodstream would in all likelihood be too different.” Crowley said, watching as the blood dripped down his hand onto the stone floor of the fireplace.  When the drops hit the ground, they sank into the stone, a large blood red stain blossoming outward.

            Crowley pulled his hand back and watched as the whole stone structure of the hearth shuddered and began to shift.  Satisfied, the demon produced a handkerchief to bind the open wound on his palm.  The Doctor watched keenly as configuration of stone and brick reworked itself to form an opening to a spiral staircase that led deep below.  When the architecture had settled once more, Crowley stepped forward through the newly formed doorway and beckoned for the Doctor to follow.

            The staircase was not terribly long, but it was probably two stories at least.  When they reached the bottom, the light was no longer a pleasant glow like that in the office – it was harsh and clinical.  As the Doctor stepped off the bottom step, he blinked several times, adjusting to the new florescent lighting.

            “We’re almost there now.” Crowley told him confidently.  He took off briskly, leading the way down the featureless hallway.  They passed a heavily chained door on the left and an open room to the right that appeared to have shelves and shelves of bottles of… blood?  They passed another door on the right, and then finally Crowley gestured ahead – there was another door at the end of the hallway.

            As they came up to it, Crowley produced an old key and inserted it in the lock.  There was a click, and the door swung open.

            The Doctor felt his heart freeze inside his chest.  Likewise the demon stopped short at the view that had been waiting for them behind the door.

            The room was huge, almost a big auditorium of sorts – yet it didn’t have any seats, merely decagonal levels leading down to the center depression.  But you could not see the floor very well – for it was covered in an endless mountain of treasure.  Gold coins and various gems, as well as gem studded objects here and there.

            It was a room of treasure, yes, but it was not just any material wealth – no, this place was reserved for very special items, things that were in all reality, perfectly useless; and yet, it was these items that made up the most powerful part of Hell’s weapon arsenal.  You see, each of these objects possessed that special ability to ensnare victims by way of greed so acutely those who possess them time and time again are driven to do terrible, terrible, things.  Things that lead a person to Hell as a final destination.  They were the things that made people cheat.  Steal.  Murder.

            But as attention drawing as the seduction of wealth was, it was that was not what had caught the Doctor’s eye.

            In the center of room, on top of the mountain of sinners’ wealth stood his own most prized possession.  The TARDIS.

            And she was not in good shape.

            An intricately woven net of light seemed to constantly be weaving itself constantly around the Police Box.  Tendrils of white light snaked around the space time machine hungrily, moving both chillingly slow and violently fast at the same time.  They appeared to be coming from the many sizable cracks were all along the sides of the TARDIS, glowing piercingly bright.  It hurt to look at, and yet it was beautiful.  The vision was absolutely silent, except for what sounded like a very distant wind and… singing?

            “No… NO!” The Doctor yelled, terribly distraught.  He stumbled moving forward as he broke into a run towards his oldest companion.

            “Doctor!” Crowley yelled in warning.  The Doctor ignored him and clambered up the pile of gold to the TARDIS.  When he made it to the top, he reached out a hand to touch the swirling vortex.  The tendrils of light flowed over his extended hand gently for a second … then suddenly they swarmed furiously and screams broke the air echoing around the Time Lord and Demon.  They were not from the Doctor – they originated from the TARDIS and the swirling storm of light.  Then there was a bang and the Doctor flew back fifteen feet in the air, before crashing into the sea of riches.

            The screams died away abruptly as soon as contact between the Time Lord and his TARDIS was severed.  Crowley moved towards where the Doctor had been thrown to.

            “Are you alright?” The demon asked.  The Doctor brushed himself off and scrambled up.

            “No… no, no, NO I am NOT alright!  Look at her!” The Doctor looked up, tears in his eyes.

            “The TARDIS is dying!”


	17. The Death Anomaly

Super **Who** Lock

 

            The doctor stared at the TARDIS.  He was in shock.

            It wasn’t happening, was it?

            There was a hand on his arm.  Canton.  No, Crowley.

            “Doctor!” the demon’s voice sounded far away, as if coming across a long distance.  The Doctor shook himself, trying to center his mind that felt as if it was breaking.  He was on his knees.  Had he always been there?  He couldn’t remember.

            The TARDIS.  Dying.

            “DOCTOR, PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER!” Crowley’s voice was harsh in his ear.  The Doctor looked up at him dully.

            “If you want to save your toy box, now is NOT the time to snap.  You’re better than this.” Crowley told him urgently.

            “I-” the Doctor tried but couldn’t think of anything.  His mind was blank, wiped clean by the nightmare before him.

            “Doctor, FOCUS.  This has happened before, has it not?  What did you do then?” Crowley continued, trying to get the Doctor to focus.

            He was right.  This had happened before.  In the alternate timeline.  And he had fixed it.

            “But that was all in Amy’s head…” the Doctor mumbled.  “This is reality…”

            “Doesn’t matter.” Crowley hoisted the Doctor up.  “All of reality is the mind of God, and His mind has been changed at least 3 times by the angel in our little boy band.”

            “I don’t…” the Doctor tried to protest.

            “Save your grade school excuses, we don’t have the time.  Now.  Is there anything we can salvage from this Titanic wreckage before jumping ship?”

            The Doctor stared at Crowley.  Was there anything to save?  The question shoved its way into his brain and brought everything to life.  The gears in his mind suddenly creaked back into motion.

            “The TARDIS is dying.” The Doctor repeated, but this time he was thinking it through. “But it’s not a natural death.”

            “Spark notes of the lecture, Doctor, if you don’t mind.” Crowley intoned.

            “See the light field around her?” The Doctor pointed.

            “Hard to miss.”

            “The lightshow is a collection of multiple dynamic rifts in the space time continuum.  It happens when there’s a single irreversible one-time-only event taking place at multiple occasions in the time stream.  The Universe tries to compensate by bringing all the points together into one.  The TARDIS is not just dying, she’s…” the Doctor waved a hand, once again lost for words, “…dying in many different places at many different times.  Simultaneously.”

            Crowley frowned, trying to take this new information in.  He quickly gave up and mentally resolved to think the absurdity through later.

            “What could cause this?” He asked.

            “I’m not sure… Anything if you tried hard enough.” The Doctor admitted.  “But one thing’s for certain: only a Time Lord would know how to pull off such a paradox.  But why…?”

            “Philosophy, later.  Action, now.  Your thinking is making me wish I had gone with the Winchesters.”

            “Well, if we could get inside…” the Doctor contemplated.  “There are things that would be of incalculable use to us.”

            “Tell me you have a plan.”

            “Working on it.” The Doctor said testily.  After a brief time, he had an idea.  “Alright, we need something that has a history.  A powerful amount of memories can provide a sort of focal point in the time stream.  The Universe is confused about what is going on with the TARDIS – but if we can convince it the TARDIS is really at one particular point, it might dispel the rift field long enough for us to get inside.”

            “An object with strong sentimental memory?  Where are we supposed to get that down here?” Crowley asked crossly.  The Doctor looked at him, shrugging.

            “You don’t have ANYTHING sentimental in your office?”

            Crowley looked as if he was at war with himself for a moment, then he turned and strode out of the vault, slamming the door behind him.  The Doctor shared a small smile with himself for a moment.  Sentiment.

            Turning back to the TARDIS, the momentary good feeling left him.

            “What did they do to you…” he murmured, reaching out a hand, wishing he could stroke the wood of his beloved box.

            Absentmindedly, the Doctor allowed his hand to brush one of the weaving space-time rifts.  In an instant he saw a different scene in front of his eyes.  A familiar scene. A scene he never wanted to see again.

            The graveyard.

            But there were two different figures in the picture this time.

            The Doctor tried to yell out, tried to warn the Winchesters about the Weeping Angels, but the scene was torn from his sight as he was explosively flung backwards again.

            He hit the gold covered ground hard, skidding over coins and gems alike.  When he came to a stop, he lay there for several minutes, trying to make sense of what he had seen.  It couldn’t be the past.  It had to be the future.  The Winchesters were going to the graveyard.  Why?

            The Doctor sat up realizing something.

            Crowley had not returned.

            In a flash the Doctor tore through the door and down the vault hallways.  Up the spindly staircase, into Crowley’s office.

            When the Doctor stepped into the chamber, he was surprised to find the entire room had changed.  Whereas previously the atmosphere had been rather light with a roaring fire and windows, now it was darker, with a much more sinister feel to it.  The windows were replaced with many tall bookcases that made the room feel almost claustrophobic.  Crowley’s desk, moved to the side now, had changed from what had been basically a table to a proper desk, complete with swivel chair.

            Despite the change, it was still obvious to the Time Lord that something had gone very wrong; the room was a wreck.  There had clearly been a fight of some sort – one that involved fire, a lot of blood, and possibly an explosion.  The demon was nowhere to be seen.

            In the middle of everything lay the rug that the Doctor had noticed the first time they had come through – it was the only thing from the old office that remained.  However now it appeared as if something had burned the carpet from the underneath. Now a blackened burn in the shape of a perfect runed pentagram was visible on it.  In the midst of the devil’s trap, there was a bit of broken glass and a frame.

            The Doctor picked it up and felt his stomach clench.  Even though it was partially burned by the fire, he recognized the picture.  He had a copy of it himself.

            When he could bear looking at the smiling faces of the Ponds and Canton no longer, he turned the frame over.  The back was smashed, and the back of the photograph had been scrawled on the back.

_If only every year could be 1969._

            The Time Lord took a breath, centering himself.  He looked around.  The room was completely empty.  Letting the breath out in a long sigh, The Doctor pocketed the photo.  Wasting time wasn’t something Crowley would have wanted.

            Turning, he swiftly made his way back through the vault door and down the spiral staircase.  Soon he was back in front of the TARDIS.

            “Let’s hope this works.” the Doctor murmured, as he produced the picture once more.  After a moment of looking at it fondly, he steeled himself and extended the photograph cautiously towards the time field.

            The anomaly did not like the objectized memory one bit.  As the Doctor held out the old picture from 1969 closer and closer, the net of light began moving faster, sizzling and popping here and there.  The time rift field seemed to be trying to avoid the photograph, bending and retracting with almost a repulsive magnetic nature.  But the Doctor pushed further and, upon contact, a fissure tore itself open in the anomaly, with a sound the Doctor imagined would belong to ripping electricity in half.

            “There we go,” the Doctor said, satisfied.  Producing his sonic screwdriver, he quickly undid the screws that held the glass covering the TARDIS sign.  As the glass came off, he slid the photograph of Canton and the Ponds behind it, and re-fixed the glass to the door of the TARDIS.  He then stood back to admire his handwork.

            The light field sizzled angrily and consistently tried to re-encompass the entirety of the TARDIS, but the picture held, sustaining fissure better than the Doctor could have hoped.

            “A rift in a mesh of rifts…” the Doctor mused, gazing at the spectacular sight.  “Are these my memories or yours Canton?”

            “Right.  No sense in wasting time.” the Doctor repeated Crowley’s mantra to himself and shook off the philosophical atmosphere.  Reaching forward, he seized the door handle to the TARDIS.  It buzzed with a tangy sort of energy, but beneath all the rush, the Doctor felt the familiar warmth he always did when the TARDIS recognized her Time Lord.

            “That’s right, sexy.  I’m back.” He said with a smile and pulled the door open.


	18. The Truth is Out There, but It's Classified

SuperWho **Lock**  

 

            When John came to, he was surprised to find he felt… fine.

            He snapped his eyes open and sat up.  He was in his bed, in his room.  Everything was undisturbed and perfectly peaceful.

            No, that couldn’t be right.  Something was wrong.  The last thing he had been thinking before he had been out…

            John scratched his forearm absentmindedly as he tried to remember with a furrowed brow.  There had been a feeling of raw panic for some reason, when he had first woken up, perhaps the remainder of a bad dream.  It was fading fast now, as the sunlight streamed in his windows and sounds of the city below filled the flat.

            Despite not being able to remember the origin or cause of his concern, John had not lived with a genius on high priority hit lists without developing an appreciation for paranoia.  Without a minute to lose, he got out of bed and knelt down next to it, checking under the furniture.  No blinking lights or suspicious boxes were there to greet him.  Just a lot of dust.

            John sat back and braced for the coming sneeze that was tickling his nose.  It never came.  It was going to be one of those days.

            Yesterday had been one of those days as well, the good doctor reflected.  Those two not-FBI agents had shaken John, right down to his core, no matter how hard he had tried to be indifferent.  Someone wanted to play a sick game.  About Sherlock.

            It was no wonder his night had been full of bad dreams.

            Still unable to shake the feeling of ants crawling all over him, John turned on the hot water in his shower and ventured out into the kitchen to start the tea.

            “Ah.  You’re awake.  About time.  Good morning, Dr. Watson,” A familiar voice brought John’s attention to the kitchen table.  John’s heart nearly leapt from his chest at the sudden surprise, but his panic quickly dissolved to be replaced by a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

            “Mycroft.  Haven’t seen you in a while.  Don’t suppose you could ever call first,” John nodded a greeting to the older Holmes brother.

            “Waiting for you to pass a pay phone would take too long I’m afraid,” Mycroft said with a wry smile, “and this conversation is too much of a risk as it is, face to face, forget any other medium.”

            “Risk?  So this isn’t a social call then?” John inquired, filling the kettle with water and setting it on the stove.

            “No.  I’m here on rather urgent business,” Mycroft said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “I would have preferred to leave you out of it, per the wishes of my brother, but as his research has proven unable to answer any of our questions, national security deems it necessary to pursue a more direct line of inquiry.”

            John was quiet.  He knew that Sherlock kept most of his research in his mind palace, rather than books or computers.  But Mycroft was well aware of that fact as well – it was redundant to point out.

            “Did Sherlock ever mention an individual by the name of Mark Sheppard?” Mycroft asked, pulling a file from the table and sifting through it.  John opened the fridge and pulled out the egg carton.

            “Sheppard?” John asked, grimacing as a foul smell assaulted his nose – the eggs were rotten.  John dumped the lot of them in the rubbish bin with an equally foul expression.

            “No it doesn’t sound familiar.  Why, is he your newest terrorist threat?” John inquired.

            “No.  He’s an actor.  From London originally, but works almost exclusively on American television shows, with one exception.  Used to be a drummer for various and sundry bands before that.   Currently believed to be in Vancouver, Canada for filming,” Mycroft replied dryly.

            “But?” John gestured for Mycroft continued.

            “I won’t bore you with the details, but three days ago there was a brief disruption in filming when someone Sheppard reportedly recognized made it onto set and interrupted them.  The intruder was escorted off the premises, but not before exchanging a few words with Sheppard.  Before filming could then continue, Sheppard vanished with no explanation.  He has not made contact since.”

            “I fail to see how this has anything to do with me or…” John protested.

            “I said he has not made contact.  I did not say he has not been seen.  This was taken last night,” Mycroft handed John a blurry photo from the file.

            John felt his blood run cold, as he sat down across from Mycroft.  The picture was of a man he didn’t recognize but presumed to be this Sheppard character.  What was much more disconcerting, however, was where he was standing.

            He was at the door of 221B Baker Street.

            “He was looking for Sherlock?” John asked.

            “Doubtful.  It is widely known that my brother is no longer open for business.  I would say he was looking for something left behind.”

            “Like what?”

            “Wouldn’t we all like to know.” Mycroft said thoughtfully.  “I don’t suppose you can think of anything…?”

            “No,” Watson replied sourly, standing and moving back to the counter.  “Anything else you’d like to interrogate me about before you leave?”

            Mycroft pursed his lips, seemingly fighting an inner battle not to be frustrated with Dr. Watson.  John turned away and began fixing his tea.

            “How is this a matter of national security?” John asked as he scratched his arm again, attempting to appear less curious than he actually was.

            Mycroft slid another piece of paper across the table.  John picked it up, examining it as he sat down.  It was a list of names, at least 256.

            “That list was the current one when I printed it from my computer about an hour ago, but it was on a track to triple in size by now, at the rate it was increasing.”

            “Who are these people?”

            “Those who have turned themselves in today.  They’re every end of the spectrum so far, from terrified civilians to hardened felons.  All of them, whether by force or choice, have worked for Moriarty in one way or another.”

            “Why are they turning themselves in now?”

            “They all are under the peculiar notion that they have suddenly been released from a tyrannical reign of fear.”

            “That’s rather poetic.  Care to translate for those of us who don’t speak allegory?”

            “They seem too think they are now safe from.  That ‘he’ is gone for good.”

            “He was gone for good when he committed suicide.  What’s changed?”

            Mycroft was quiet for a moment, before continuing.

            “One of the individuals rather high up in the hierarchy of fear and manipulation provided us with this disturbing picture.” Mycroft offered John another photo.

            It was another picture of Sheppard.  But this time he was not alone.  There was another figure in the picture – one John recognized.

            “No…” John breathed, hatred and terror clutching his heart all in one horrifyingly unreal moment.

            “That picture was printed out this morning, but it’s hard to determine when the source image was taken…”

            “It has to be at least two years old, yes?  He’s dead,” John said thickly, standing and backing away.  He pointed at the photograph, refusing to accept it.  “He shot himself in the head, there’s no way he survived that.  I WAS THERE when they hauled the bodies away!  I WAS THERE for the DNA test afterward!”

            Mycroft looked away, putting a hand to his mouth.  John recognized the gesture.

            “No… you… you helped COVER the fact you didn’t actually have a body?!” John could not believe any of this was real.  “How in ANY situation would that be okay?!”

            “The government often acts in the best interest of public mentality.  In some cases, the need for the public to feel safe again has a higher priority,” Mycroft said calmly.

            “THEN YOU PUT HIM IN JAIL AND EXECUTE HIM!” John argued crossly.

            “You above anyone else should know that’s an impossible feat.  Besides, I correctly guessed that he would not be interested in doing anything so long as he has no one to play games against.”

            “I don’t believe this.” John said, putting a hand to his forehead.  After a moment, the next logical question occurred to him. “Why is he on the move now?”

            Mycroft picked up his picture again and looked at it pensively.

            “The word on the street is that this Sheppard character is the one who has liberated London.  But what he has offered in its stead… what was tempting enough to draw the devil away from his favorite city of victims… I cannot even begin to guess what such an offer would be.”

            The two let silence fall for a moment, as they contemplated the gravity of the situation.  Finally, Mycroft stood.

            “You understand as always, Dr. Watson, that there is much I am not at liberty to inform you of.”

            “You can take your rules and regs and shove them up-” Watson began without much heart, as he rubbed his now irritated arm.

            “But if I were to give you one word of warning – strictly off books – it would be that the season of miracles has only just begun.  For those of us who define ourselves by excelling beyond human expectations, resurrection is but the next great magic trick.  Unfortunately, magicians are only a danger to themselves – all too often they tend to find their way into trouble – if they lack their good assistant. Such is the way of the universe.  Good Morning, Dr. Watson.” And with that, Mycroft Holmes turned and left.

            John sat there for exactly two minutes and fifty six seconds.

            Then the next minute he was dressed, out the door and sprinting in the direction of his office.

            On the street, Mycroft smiled as the good doctor raced past.  Then, after a second thought, he turned and headed back toward the flat he had just left.

            Someone would need to turn off the shower.


	19. Something... not Natural

**Super** WhoLock

 

            The car was eerily quiet.

            It was the kind of awkward, pregnant silence that was full of unasked questions, all of which would inevitably be a creative variation or sub-separation of “What made you change your mind and climb into the car with a couple of confirmedly fake FBI agents driving a questionably obtained car with broken windows and two wires pressed together instead of a key?”  But such questions were arguably unnecessary as well as probably not in the best of interest of the Winchesters.  They were too busy counting their lucky stars that in their moment of utter loss at what to do, Dr. Watson himself had contacted them (via the number they left with his receptionist) and agreed to accompany them to Sherlock.

            Sam and Dean had been only too shocked, but shock quickly gave way to earnest reception of the good doctor and an eagerness to move forward and return with their portion of the plan complete.

            After the initial surprise, on the way to pick up Dr. Watson both Winchesters quickly realized the situation ahead would soon necessitate a delivery of the standard “It’s all real.” speech.  Such a thing was inevitable whenever you ended up relocating a perfectly normal person into the realm of the creepy and the crawly, but the Winchesters had come to be fairly good at it.  In this particular case however, the mutual decision between the hunter brothers was to wait until Watson was suitably stunned into asking for it.  Trying to inform them beforehand never ended well, and would only cause more delays in an already tight schedule.

            Still, despite their unannounced decision to wait on the magic-ed talk, what was bothering the Winchesters now was Watson’s utter lack of… any speech at all really.  Besides showing up and saying, “Take me to him,” he hadn’t spoken much of anything.  He hadn’t asked where they were going, or how they knew Sherlock… or made any conversation at all.

            He just remained stonily silent, scratching his forearm absentmindedly, as he wore a rather intense look upon his face that told the Winchesters to maintain the silence in their own right.

            “We’re about five minutes out,” Dean mentioned to Sam at length, glancing at his watch and subsequently in the rear view mirror as they sat at a particularly long stop light.  The rest of the ride proceeded in silence as it had before.  Before long however, they had arrived at the familiar store front.  A new window had already been put in.

            “I don’t suppose you want to…” Sam simultaneously mimicked slicing his throat and making a phone call as Dean parked the car.

            “Yeah, I’ll take care of that.  You stay with…” Dean tilted his head in the direction of the backseat and Sam nodded.  Dean gave him a thumbs up and got out of the car, shutting the door behind him.

            As he watched Dean move to the trunk to carry out the decidedly shady business of making a blood dial-up, Sam mustered his ability to socialize in an attempt to distract John  from becoming curious about what the elder Winchester was doing.

            “So, Dr. Watson…” Sam started awkwardly, “How long have you known Sherlock?”

            “Five years,” Came the toneless response.

            “Right… and you’ve been his…?”

            “Blogger,” Watson interrupted instinctively, rubbing his arm.

            “Blogger?  Really?” Sam asked, fascinated by the modern incarnation of two fictional characters he had read so much about.  “And you had a big following?”

            “The counter on the website broke.”

            “Well I guess that’s a sign of success as any,” Sam congratulated him.  Watson’s expression however, remained akin to a corpse’s.  The younger Winchester resisted the urge to fidget in his seat at the icy atmosphere.  Sam knew that even though Watson had so far restrained himself from asking for it, the good doctor was inevitably hungry for information on one subject, and one subject alone.  It was time to give him something on it, before everything in his mind was subject to psychological rupture as well.

            “Dr. Watson,” Sam began again, “I think you should know… ”

            “What shape Sherlock is in?” John finished instantly, still not meeting his eyes.  “Anything you tell me would be better than the deteriorating corpse I believed him to be up until this morning.”  The doctor’s expression did not change, but he seemed to scratch his arm a bit more violently than before.

Sam paused for a long moment before continuing.

            “He’s alive and in pretty good shape… physically,” Sam finished his painfully obvious allusion to what WAS wrong with Sherlock.  For the first time Watson looked at him.

            “Physically?” He asked, confused.

            “Yes.  Well, no.  But he’s not in danger of dying.  The real trouble at the moment is… his mind,” Sam said uneasily.

            “His mind?” Watson repeated.

            “He’s a bit… off the reservation.  For the last day or so we haven’t been able to get a response out of him – we’ve been taking the best care of him, but we were hoping that a familiar face might help him stabilize,” Sam attempted to explain their general plan, only to be interrupted again.

            “Sherlock has gone insane?” John repeated again, his mind struggling to even grasp the idea of a mentally incapacitated Sherlock.

            “I’m afraid so,” the younger Winchester said unhappily.

            “How?” The question was all Watson could manage.

            “It’s our fault.  We needed his help and we exposed him to too many… strange new possibilities too quickly – and it broke him.”

            “Break Sherlock?  That’s not possible.” John argued faithfully.  “Believe me, I would know.  We’ve been through plenty of loony before.”

            “Not quite like this…” Sam said looking away.  As if on cue, Dean rapped on the window.

            “All set.”  The elder Winchester’s voice informed them, muffled through the glass.

            “Looks like it’s time to go.” Sam told Watson.  Collecting themselves, both doctor and hunter got out of the car and joined Dean in front of the store window.  It didn’t take long for Watson to realize where they were.

            “Wait a minute, this is where…” He was silenced by the sudden appearance of glowing sigils all over the glass.

            “What the hell-” John breathed.

            “Good guess.” Dean said with a wry smile.  “Alright, now we have to go together – I don’t want to risk anyone getting left behind.”

            “Go?  Go where?” Watson asked, his alarm suddenly growing.

            “Dr. Watson, have you read Harry Potter by any chance?” Sam asked with an awkward grin.

            “Of course but I-”

            “Well just think of this as Platform 9 & ¾.” Dean said.  And with that, he shoved Watson forcefully into the window.  The doctor only had a moment to brace for impact before glass was raining around them all, as both Winchesters had hurled themselves alongside.

            The trio hit the ground hard, but fortunately no bones or heads were broken in the impact.  The only real loss was the trust of one severely unwarned doctor blogger.

            “ARE YOU POSSESSED?!” Watson’s angry voice asked loudly before the dust even began to clear.

            “No, neither of the Winchesters is possessed.  They both have anti-possession sigils on their left pectoralis major to prevent such a thing from happening.”

            John was surprised to find himself helped from the ground by a mildly attractive stranger with piercing blue eyes.

            “Great timing as always Cas,” Dean said, getting up himself and turning to see Sam had arrived unhurt.

            “Who are you?” John asked, momentarily distracted from his anger by the stranger.

            “I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord,” Castiel informed him in his usual straight-facd manner.

            “Sorry?”

            “Apology accepted.  We should leave immediately – we do not have time to delay.  I fear leaving your friend alone for extended lengths of time is... unwise in his condition.”

            “But Cas are you strong enough to give all of us a lift?” Dean asked, concerned.

            “I will have to be,” Castiel replied, face set.

            “Maybe you could just take Dr. Watson?” Sam suggested.

            “WAIT!  No one is taking me ANYWHERE until someone explains what the hell is going on!” Watson interrupted the discussion.  All three remaining members of the original Team Free Will turned to look at him.

            That was when a howl sounded in the distance.  It was a long way off but unmistakably chilling.  Everyone froze.

            “Was that…?” Sam ventured.

            “Yes,” Castiel confirmed with a solemn face.

            “Damn,” Dean swore.  “They have our scent?”

            “Not yet.  They are too far off,” Castiel said, looking for all appearances at the wall, “But they will be within distance soon.  We need to leave.”

            Instantly the Winchesters took off in separate directions, gathering the temporary base they had set-up in their mission to the UK.

            “Am I missing something?  It’s just a…” Watson trailed off as he noticed that their surroundings weren’t what they should be.

            “Wait a second… where’s the shop?”

            “What shop?” Castiel inquired.  Another couple of howls sounded in the distance.

            “The shop we crashed into – we just broke through the window into the shop!” Watson turned and gestured to the window.

            “We arrived in a shop in the parallel universe – we came back through it,” Sam told Cas from across the room.

            “Shopkeeper was a dick, but anything was better than that damn TV set,” Dean muttered as he poured out a bowl of a suspicious looking red substance and dumped it in a duffel bag.

            “Parallel universe?” John asked weakly.  Whatever was making the noise was getting closer now – no longer did it sound like howls so much as the eerie baying of hounds.

            “Look, I’m sure you have plenty of questions Dr. Watson, and we’ll be happy to answer them.  But right now we have to get out of here.  Immediately,” Sam said, shoving a shotgun unceremoniously into another bag.

            “Ready,” Dean said, joining Cas and Watson in the center of the room.

            “Likewise,” Sam zipped his bag and moved to the group.

            “Brace yourselves.” With one hand Castiel touched both Winchesters, and the other John.  There was a brief rush and the sound of wings.  Suddenly they were all in a familiar nondescript motel room.  As soon as they arrived, Castiel crumpled to the floor.

            “Cas!” The concern in Dean’s voice was urgent as the hunter instantly knelt next to the fallen angel.

            “I’m… fine…” Cas put a hand up.  There was a small line of blood trickling from his nose, but otherwise he only appeared utterly exhausted.

            As Dean helped the angel to the unoccupied bed, Sam was left to deal with the imminent implosion of shock that was the wide-eyed Watson.

            “What…” the poor doctor was suitably stunned.  But at least he was still standing.

            “Angels.  Fastest way to fly,” Sam said with a small smile, “and the cheapest too.”

            “John?”

            At the deep voice, Winchester and Watson alike turned to see a memorable sight.  Sherlock was sitting upright, rigid with a tension like a dog that had heard its master’s voice.  His burned sightless eyes stared unseeingly in the direction he had heard Watson’s voice.

            Watson blinked severely for a moment, before steeling himself and moving over to the bedside.

            “Sherlock.” He stated simply.  Then he socked him in the jaw.

            The punch was so fast and unexpected that the Winchesters neither saw it coming nor knew how to react once it had happened.

            “YOU BASTARD!”

            “John I meant-”

            “IT’S BEEN A WHOLE YEAR!”

            “I was in hiding and I-”

            “I HAVE BEEN MOURNING FOR A WHOLE YEAR!”

            “I know you’re a bit upset.  Frankly more than I thought you’d be…”

            “UPSET DOESN’T BEGIN TO COVER IT!” Watson turned away, rubbing his forearm viciously.  His eyes looked suspiciously moist.

            “At least it looks like he fixed the crazy.” Dean murmured to Sam.

            An uncomfortable silence reigned for a few seconds, before Sherlock ventured to break it.

            “I had Molly’s help.  And Mycroft’s.”

            “I don’t care how you did it Sherlock.  I want to know WHY.” Watson said, turning.

            “Why do you think?  It was Moriarty’s final play.  He had several snipers trained on all of…” Sherlock trailed off.

            “All of what, Sherlock?” John asked irately.

            “All of… the people I have come to care for.” Sherlock finished quietly.  John’s expression softened instantly.

            “Why didn’t you tell me?  Why didn’t you let us work together like we always do?”

            “Because it was an order set in stone, inerasable after Moriarty shot himself in the head.  I had no idea how long they’d be watching you afterwards, because it’s impossible to determine how long Moriarty’s reach extends past the grave.  You had to believe I was dead in order for you to be safe.”

            Watson rubbed his arm in silence.  There wasn’t much to be said.

            “I wasn’t about to let Moriarty beat me, but in both of us refusing to concede defeat, his final move had to be a stalemate – it was designed to be that way.” Sherlock said bitterly.  John was quiet for another moment, before he could bring himself to speak.

            “It wasn’t his final move.”

            “What?”

            “It wasn’t his final move.  Moriarty is alive and on the move, as of this morning.”

            “Impossible.” Sherlock snapped.  “I saw him die myself.”

            “And I saw his DNA test in person.  But your brother was so good as to confirm it this morning.  Moriarty is-”

            But whatever Watson intended to inform them about the situation had to wait.  For at that precise moment, an all too familiar howl filled the air.

            “No...” Dean sucked in a sharp breath, cocking his head to listen.  Another howl sounded.  Both Winchesters looked to Cas in disbelief.

            “Impossible… the shouldn’t… they didn’t have our scent…” Cas murmured from where he sat, hunched over on the second bed.  The angel’s eyelids flickered and he wavered.  They wouldn’t be escaping via angel from this scrape.

            “DAMN it!” Dean said again.  He ripped open his bag and pulled out a shotgun.  “Sam, go get the salt and the glasses!  We’re gonna have to hole in here.”  The younger Winchester nodded curtly and swiftly moved to the door, pulled it open, and slammed it shut behind him.

            The unearthly baying was growing closer now, and John and Sherlock were beginning to catch the contagious fear.  Sherlock had once again begun muttering under his breath.

            “What IS that?” John asked, fear leaking into his voice.  He rubbed his arms feverishly.  The howls made him feel cold and sickly.

            “Hell Hounds,” Dean said curtly.  John’s eyes widened.

            “They don’t exist…” he began but Sherlock stopped him with a hand.

            “We’re not in our world anymore John.” He said quietly.  “I learned that the hard way.”

            “Is that what happened…?” John let the question hang, as there was really no need to mention Sherlock’s eyes to the detective – he was more aware of them than anyone else.

            “Well what can we do to stop them?” John asked instantly.  “Give me a gun, I know how to use one.”

            “I’m sure you could – if you could see them,” Dean said, peeking out past the curtain covering the dirty motel window.

            “They’re invisible?” Sherlock asked half curious, half incredulous.  Watson was less enthused.  Memories of the terror of the Hound of Baskerville flooded back to him, and he rubbed his arm subconsciously.  Soon his hand travelled up his arm to his shoulder.  It wasn’t itching anymore, it was… burning.  All over.

            “Hell Hounds and things of demonic nature in general are invisible to the human eye, unless…” Castiel paused in his explanation to look sharply at Watson, who felt like flinching at the sudden intensity of the stare.

            “What?” the doctor blogger asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious.

            “How long have you had that painful burning sensation?” Castiel asked, moving towards John, eyeing his irritated red arms.

            “What?  It’s nothing!  Just a rash or something- I woke up with it this morning!” John protested as the angel reached out a hand towards him.

            “ _Manufesto._ ” Castiel spoke, placing two fingers and a thumb on the side of John’s face.  John felt a searing heat spread all over him, and winced as he bore the pain.  Castiel stepped back, a wary look in his eyes.  There was another sharp intake of breath from Dean.

            “What?  What is it?” Sherlock asked urgently, his frustration mounting as he was unable to see what the others could.  Watson felt like he should ask the same question, but when he looked down at his now searing arms, he could do nothing but gape.  His hands and arms, to where it vanished beneath his clothing, were covered in red script that looked like it had been burned into his flesh.

            “What the hell?!” Watson yelled, looking down at himself.

            “Damn right, 'What the hell?'.  You made a deal?!” Dean asked angrily.

            “What?” John asked, confusion and alarm written all over his face.  Across the room, the door banged open and Sam rushed in with salt and various supplies.

            “Dean I’ve got the stuff but we need to get to work fast-” He stopped short as he caught sight of what was going on.  The supplies were dropped on the bed.

            Despite the fact they were practically strangers, John had never seen a look so equally full of hurt and sympathy in the younger Winchester’s eyes.  Sam looked as if Watson had personally betrayed him – and yet he felt nothing but utter complete sorrow about it.

            “You made a deal?” Sam asked, unable to tear his eyes away from John’s skin.

            “No!  I have no idea what you lunatics are talking about!  I didn’t make any deal that entailed burning words onto my skin, if that’s what you’re after!”

            “You didn’t make a deal with a demon?” Dean inquired sharply.  “You didn’t agree to sell your soul for something?”

            “Don’t be ridiculous.  John isn’t an idiot,” Sherlock snapped.  Then he seemed to reconsider.  “You didn’t, did you?” He asked worriedly, turning to John.

            “No!  I didn’t know any of this sort of thing existed up until five minutes ago!” John said desperately.

            “Cas how is this possible?” Dean turned to the angel, who looked extremely concerned.

            “I’m not sure, but we don’t have much time to figure out,” Castiel acknowledged.  The howls were constant now, and getting closer by the second.  “Sam, Dean.  You should fortify this architecture  - we will have to make a stand here.  John Watson, you should get undressed.”

            “What?!” John felt an entirely different heat come to his cheeks.

            “I assure you my intent is not of a lustful nature.  The markings on your skin forms the binding text of the contract – if I can read it, we can determine what your soul has been exchanged for.”

            “Oh that’s really swell.” John intoned sarcastically as he reluctantly began to pull his shirt over his head.

            “This doesn’t make any sense – how could a demon have made a contract for Watson’s soul without Watson knowing about it?” Sam asked Dean as the two set about creating salt lines.  “Consent is like the whole point in deals like that.”

            “Beats me,” Dean shrugged, “maybe the demons are abandoning integrity without Crowley in charge?”

            “Consent… does it have to be conscious?” Sherlock asked suddenly from his position, seated on the edge of the bed.

            “What?  Yes of course.  That’s like a pre-requisite of consent,” Dean said crossly.

            “But what if it was something an individual wanted deeply.  So deeply that in essence his subconscious consented to it?” Sherlock suggested.  “Human beings always underestimate the subconscious.”

            “A subconscious deal… is it possible Cas?” Sam asked as the baying of the hell hounds drew ever nearer.

            “I don’t know,” Castiel admitted again, “but if it was, the demon would have to be absolutely sure about the person’s deepest desire in order to wield it in such a fashion.”

            “Deepest darkest desire?” John asked incredulously, “I don’t have one!”

            “No?” Castiel, looked up at him, before returning to his scrutiny of John’s chest.  “The chief clause for selling a soul is always written just above the heart…”

            “And?” Dean asked impatiently.

            “It says “ _Cum conditione, ut Party A, hoc, ut quam John H. Watson, reddet animam pro anima, in locum unum, et iterum uniri Sherlock Holmes._ ”

            “Which means?” Dean did not entertain any hope of translating the Latin legal jargon on his own.

            “I sold my soul to be reunited with Sherlock,” John finished, his face oddly blank.  On the bed, Sherlock had gone pale as a sheet.

            “John…” he tried to speak but found no words.

            “Shut up Sherlock,” John silenced him, refusing to look in the direction of the detective.  Instead he looked at Castiel solemnly.  “The contract is legit – my subconscious would sell for something like that,” He told the angel bluntly, “What else does it say?”

            “That’s what confusing me.  Usually contracts are the stated purpose and then a ton of legal fine tunings, full of loopholes and traps designed to give the demon the upper hand for manipulation.  The elegance and power of the clauses typically depend on the skill and intelligence of the demon but…” Castiel trailed off.

            “WHAT?” Both Winchesters, Sherlock, and John all asked at the same time.

            “This contract is different.  It states your original purpose… for Sherlock… and then it goes on.  Here is another clause describing the bestowing of “ _unum regeneratio_ ” for the Time Lord known as the Doctor.  And here’s another mandating the rebuilding and protection of Bobby Singer’s property known as the Singer Salvage Yard.” Castiel had moved to John’s arm now.  And here’s yet another that says John Watson will recover from the 256th attempt on his life.”

            “Bobby’s place?” Dean asked, his face betraying emotion.  There was a nasty growl and a slamming noise up against the wall that brought them all back to Earth.

            “Who the hell is behind this Cas?  Does it say which demon made the contract?” Dean demanded of the angel.

            “It’s up to the demons whether or not they sign their work – but most do,” Castiel said, rubbing the back of his own neck.  When he pulled his hand away, a magnificent calligraphy C was visible, burned into the flesh of his vessel.

            “Ever since I broke my deal with Crowley, he hasn’t deigned to remove this,” Cas admitted, downtrodden.

            “We’re heartbroken for you, truly,” Dean said a little heartlessly as he braced the door which now had blow after blow reigning upon it from the outside, “but we have other things to worry about at the moment.  Can you find a signature or not?”

            “I’m looking Dean!” Cas returned irately.  “I’ve been all over his torso.”

            “Well look somewhere else!  It would be just like a demon to sign-” Dean didn’t get to finish his suggestion before a beet red Watson hastily interrupted.

            “Wait!  What about the back of MY neck?!  You haven’t checked there!”

            “That’s because as King of Hell, Crowley reserves the right to sign there.  And he is-” Cas stopped short.  As he had turned Watson around and swept his hand over the nape of his neck, a large red C had appeared, perfectly matching Castiel’s.

            “God dammit.” Dean said, eyeing the mark.  “I knew we couldn’t trust that bastard.”

            “Crowley?!  Crowley made a deal with Watson?” Sam said, his face awash in disbelief.

            “Who else do we know that scum-baggy?” Dean said irritably.  “Well at least we know who to call.  I’ll get the stuff!” He moved to kitchen to collect the ingredients to summon Crowley.

            “Wait.  There’s something else here.” Castiel said, examining Watson’s back.

            “ ‘Merry Christmas Boys.  Enjoy the prezzy.  Kisses, C.  P.S.  Don’t feel obligated to come rescue me.’ ” Castiel related the message to the rest of the company.

            “He burned that into my skin?!” Watson nearly yelled.

            “Sounds like Crowley.” Dean sniffed.

            “It does.” Sam agreed.  “I guess the mission to Hell went badly if he’s asking for a rescue.”

            “Mission to Hell?” Sherlock queried inquisitively.

            “What concerns me is his allusion to Christmas.  That holiday as I remember it, takes place in December.  It is the middle of July.” Castiel mused, concerned.

            “It’s just a saying – Cas people say that whenever they give presents.  It doesn’t actually have to be Christmas for-” Dean started but Sam stopped him.

            “No Dean, I think Cas is on to something.  What if Crowley’s alluding to it on purpose.  What if Watson is Crowley’s…”

            “Christmas Tree Bill.” Sherlock stated instantly.

            “Exactly!” Sam agreed excitedly.

            “Wait, wait, wait, what the hell is a Christmas Tree Bill?” Dean asked, slightly behind the curve.

            “It’s a bill that has an original purpose that’s going to be passed into law… but legislators tag a ton of other small stuff onto it to be passed along with.  Basically just grouping a bunch of unrelated stuff together with something infallible to get them all passed.” Sam explained.  “But in this case…”

            “Crowley took your soul in exchange for a ton of shit to help us,” Dean surmised for Watson.

            “Or help himself more likely,” Sam corrected.

            “I don’t really care what he took it for.  I want it back!” John argued angrily.

            “Yeah, yeah, we’re working on it,” Dean told him irritably.  “I think we have all the ingredients but…”

            There was a vicious snarl and the sound of breaking glass, as the window near the door shattered, the blast of cold air and debris clearing the salt line the Winchesters had carefully laid.

            “The glasses Sam!” Dean yelled roughly.  Sam picked up the pairs they had and threw one to his brother.  The elder Winchester barely got them on in time to see the shadowy form launching itself toward him.  A shotgun blast from Sam stopped the monster in midair and sent it yelping back through the entrance it had created.  But as the Winchesters looked on, a disturbing number of the beasts streaked in and out of the distant shadows across the parking lot.

            “Damn.  There must be at least seven,” Dean said, attempting to count.

            “This doesn’t make sense.  Why would Crowley send Hell Hounds to collect on his Christmas Tree deal he JUST MADE?” Sam tried to think through it, as they stood waiting for the next brave Hell Hound to venture forward.

            “Nothing about this situation ‘makes sense’ Sammy.  But we don’t have time to philosophize- wait here comes another.”

            At the rapidly approaching shape, both Winchesters raised their shotguns and braced to fire.  Then, out of nowhere the shape was hit hard from the side by another.

            “What the-” Dean lowered his shotgun, not quite believing what he was seeing.

            Another hell hound, only slightly larger but ten times as vicious, was tearing a new one in the previously approaching hound.  The vicious dog fight lasted some thirty seconds before prevailed and sent the other yipping off  into the shadows.

            The new hell hound limped in a circle for a moment, before turning to growl fiercely at the remaining hounds in the shadows.  The growl then turned into savage barking.  It didn’t take long for the other dogs to get the message: it was time for them to leave.  As they slunk away, the triumphant hound left out an unsettling howl.

            “Is that…” Dean started.

            “Impossible.  We killed his.  1st trial.” Sam stated bluntly.

            The dog turned and surveyed the humans with gleaming red eyes.  Then it lowered itself towards the ground in a stalking position.

            “Is it… hunting us?”

            “Yup,” Sam confirmed, lifting his gun again.  Both Winchesters took aim and prepared to fire when the hound suddenly disappeared.  One moment it was slinking towards them, the next it disappeared into a shadow on the ground, as if the shadow was a portal for it to traverse.

            “Where’d it go?” Dean asked, looking around.  The scene was quiet, but it was an unnatural stillness that only ever existed as a precursor to calamity.

            In the next moment, the hell hound exploded from the shadow next to the bed and leapt at Watson, who yelled in fright.  Knocking the doctor over, the hound sunk its teeth into his bare shoulder and dragged him backward toward the floor.

            “John!” Sherlock cried, lunging in the direction of his friend’s voice. The Winchesters, unable to fire for risk of casualty, threw their guns aside and leapt toward the struggle with knife and angel blade in hand.  But it was too late.

            A wisp of darkness flashed around the pair as they vanished into the shadow, which despite being innocently two dimensional only a moment ago, now seemed to provide a shadowy portal.

            It was all over astonishingly quickly.  A stillness fell over the room.

            “What happened?” Sherlock’s voice was cracked, afraid to ask for the answer he already could guess was coming.  The Winchesters exchanged glances, spirits broken.

            Neither one wanted to tell the blind detective where his best friend had inevitably gone.


	20. Update Required

Super **Who** Lock

            The Doctor knew something was dreadfully wrong the moment he stepped in the motel room.

            There were several things that tipped him off to the fact: first of all, there was a terrible draft.  Drafts like this one had not been popular for several centuries at least, he was fairly certain.  In the Doctor’s experience, it always paid to be aware of air flow, and in this case the unusual atmosphere was being caused by the large broken window located next to the window.  The noticing of said broken window led to its identification as tip number two.  Quickly followed by three and four, which were the deeply scoured claw marks all over the floor and the sticky black substance that smelled organic respectively.

            The most pressing issue that concerned the Doctor, however, impressive sleuthing aside, was that none of his new companions appeared to be present in the room.  As far as he had been aware, they had intended to meet up again in this same place.  And yet… none of them were here.

            This would not be overly concerning, as the Doctor was quite used to companions not staying in one place or returning as planned.  Except there was a fundamental difference with these new companions; they had the team’s current vehicle – a car that they liked to drive off into the sunset with little to no indication of where they headed left behind.

            The Doctor sat down on one of the beds disgruntled.  He wasn’t used to being left behind like this.  It was rather… unpleasant.

            As he was pondering what to do next, he noticed two things he had not in his original glance over the room: 1) there was no small amount of human blood staining the carpet between the two queen beds and 2) there was a note on the telephone with a sequence of nine numbers.

            “21st century telephone number…” the Doctor mused, turning it over in his hand.  There was nothing on the back.  He supposed the Winchesters were not one to leave much of anything that could be traced back to them.

            The Doctor pulled the telephone off the hook and carefully punched in the number.  As the phone rang, he twirled his finger in the cord absentmindedly.  Just as the Time Lord noticed his shoes were resting in the disturbing stain on the carpet and was in the process of hastily moving, the other end picked up.

            “ _Doctor?_ ”

            “Sam!  Good to hear your voice.  Due to the noticeable lack of you in this motel room, I’m assuming something has gone wrong,” The Doctor could hear road noise in the background – they were on the move.

            “ _It’s bad Doc.  We picked up Watson and he fixed Sherlock but…_ ”  It was Dean’s voice now, on speakerphone.

            “The bad guys caught up?”

            “ _Not exactly,_ ” Sam said hesitantly.

            “ _What do you mean not exactly?  If there’s anyone who fits that description, it’s Crowley._ ” the loathing in Dean’s voice was evident and made the Doctor feel unpleasant all over again.

            “Canton?” the Doctor asked, paling slightly, “Impossible.  Things went bad on our side of things – he was taken.”

            “ _Then he’s now helping the other side to save his own skin._ ” Dean said coldly.  “ _They took Watson – thanks to intel only Crowley could have provided._ ”

            “But-”

            “ _Look, Doctor… we’ve known Crowley longer than you.  And switching sides on the dime like that is exactly something he’d do – it’s practically his signature move.  But we shouldn’t really be having this conversation over the phone,”_ Sam started.

            “Where are you headed?”

            “ _A old friend’s place in Sioux Falls, South Dakota.  It’s called ‘The Singer Salvage Yard’.  Do you think you can make it there?”_ Sam asked.

            “I’ll be there before you,” the Doctor told him confidently, standing and pulling back his sleeve.

            On his wrist sat his primary reason for venturing inside the TARDIS – the object that had also allowed for his solo escape from Hell. River’s Time Vortex Manipulator.  Or was it Jack’s?  The Doctor couldn’t remember, but he suspected it might be one in the same.  It was crude technology, compared to the magnificence of the TARDIS, but it was functional, and that was all that mattered.  Team Extended Free Will was in sore need of Time Travelling capabilities.

            “ _Um, okay then.  See you there.  We’re about an hour out, but feel free to make yourself at home,_ ” Sam said on the other end, still largely uncertain what to expect of the time-travelling alien’s ingenuity.

            “I usually do that regardless, but I appreciate the invitation.” The Doctor said, smiling to the empty room.  “Oh but Sam…”

            “ _Yeah?_ ”

            “How is Sherlock?”

            “ _…quiet.  But he’s still a lot better than he was._ ”

            “Of course he is… he has a purpose now,” The Doctor mused.  “Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you all soon enough with my own eyes.  Take care, Sam.”

            “ _Alright.  See you in a few Doctor,_ ” Sam said his goodbye, and hung up.

            The Doctor held the phone for a moment or two longer, before setting it down slowly.  He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the feeling that was slowly creeping over him, but if he had to peg it, it would be uncertainty.  He was uncertain, not about the situation they were in, but about his new group of companions that he was only just beginning to be rather emotionally invested in.  There was something… different about them.

            For starters, they were completely unlike companions.  He really ought to stop calling them that.  Companions companioned – they followed the Doctor around to new places and were exposed to new cultures with their delightfully wide eyes, deliciously fascinated by the universe.  The Doctor always ended up travelling with them because he saw in them what he liked best about himself: the way he was in love with the universe.  And by travelling with that budding love, he hoped to maintain it in himself.

            But this new group was different.  There was no getting around it.  Sam and Dean rarely noticed anything around them, except to assess a potential threat.  In fact, they didn’t see culture, they didn’t see places.  All they saw was people, and the situation they would have to face because of those people.  There were merits to such a peculiar narrow minded view perhaps, but the Doctor wasn’t sure he liked how in turn the Winchesters were going to rub off on him, as companions always inevitably did.

            The Doctor liked to appreciate the universe objectively, as an observer who was enraptured by what he saw, and occasionally dabbled in it to get a taste of different things here and there.  But the Winchesters were making him start to see it from a different way; messy and sticky, full of people who have or are serious problems.  People you can’t meet once, take for a joy ride, and fly off into the sunset, leaving them with their problems solved.  These people were the sort you had to commit to deal with for longer than you would ever wish.

            It was, the Doctor reflected, one of the many less picturesque definitions of family perhaps.  A very weird mistrustful family full of strangers and enemies, but a family nonetheless, strictly according to dynamics.

            “Enough is enough,” the Doctor muttered to himself gently.  Now wasn’t the time to lapse into a philosophical stupor.  Now was the time for action.

            The Singer Salvage yard was the place he was to be heading, but Sam had said they were about an hour out.  Which meant the Time Lord had some serious time to kill.

            And just the errand that needed running.

**. . .**

            The hum of an engine and the crunch of tires on gravel broke the Doctor from his thoughts, as the Winchesters pulled onto Bobby’s property.

            It was a nice place – a bit rustic, and very American.  But the Doctor found the inside of the house to be homey in a curiously unfriendly-to-outsiders way.  The trapdoor had been immensely entertaining for a good half hour.

            The Doctor stepped outside into the brisk South Dakotan air, to be greeted by the Winchesters unloading their full car.  Sam busied himself with unpacking the trunk to a degree, while Dean aided worryingly dependent angel.  Sherlock stood on his own two feet, but while he was functional, the word ‘troubled’ was a bit of an understatement to describe his general state.  His eyes were still of course, an atrocity to look at.

            “Well it looks like the gang’s all here!” The Doctor greeted them cheerily.  “Never had a gang before… but there’s a first for everything!”

            “Everyone… minus one,” Sam reminded him with a pointed look, which pricked the Doctor’s conscience.  He had been attempting to raise the mood a few notches, not foster insensitivity.  So much for that bid.

            The Winchesters couldn’t help but stop short at the sight of Bobby’s newly restored house.  For people that hunted ghosts for a living and therefore theoretically would be made of resilient stuff, the sight before them clearly stirred something within them.

            “Right, right… Sherlock, good to see you’re on your own two feet again.  Coming to grips with the extended universe, are we?”

            “Hardly,” Sherlock confessed in a tone that gave a speech of its own as to how displeased the consulting detective was with such a situation.  “But when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

            “A quote worthy of Sherlock Holmes,” The Doctor said with a small smile.

            “Yes well in this case nothing within the realm of sanity remains, so I find myself forced to abandon such a realm for… whatever this is,” Sherlock gestured towards the Winchesters, one of whom was now spray painting new sigils on the porch while the other continued to help the angel.  “The most disgusting notion of all of this is that those two are perfectly competent in contrast to my ineptitude.”

            “A humbling situation or two is good for everyone.” The Time Lord noted with another smile.  “You can be as unhappy about it as you like, but I for one think it might be beneficial for you and the art of keeping your ego in check.  And I daresay John would agree.”  Sherlock paused a moment at this.

            “It’s not just that Doctor,” The detective eventually continued, “Those two… they’ve spent a life time learning their craft, just as I spent a lifetime honing mine.  And genius or not, there are some things that will always take time.  A lot of it.”

            “And?” The Doctor tilted his head, uncertain of what the consulting detective was driving at.

            “And I don’t have another lifetime to learn all there is to know – one lifetime clearly isn’t even enough for this endless circus you’ve introduced me to!”

            “I’m still not sure what you’re-”

            “I’m USELESS Doctor!  USELESS!” Sherlock divulged angrily.  “My profession depends upon me being able to discern and then eliminate every possibility until one remains.  You’ve just introduced me to a world of infinite possibilities – a world where I will never know what to expect, let alone identify.  Even if I did make myself useful and devote every minute of my time acquiring new information to make myself competent… it’s not as if I’ll be able to do anything with it.”  Sherlock stopped, raising a hand to gingerly touch his burnt out eyes.  “In other words I am USELESS.  To you… to them… to John.”

            An utter quiet descended.  The Winchesters had been privy to Sherlock’s outburst just as much as the Time Lord had.

The Doctor hesitantly put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, the movement growing in confidence as it went.

            “I know what it’s like to feel helpless.” The Time Lord told him comfortingly.  “I’ve been there all too often before.  But the thing about being helpless is… it gives someone else a chance to be the hero.  And the miracle of the universe is that someone always does step up to the plate, even when you can’t.”

            Sherlock was silent, but before the Doctor could go on, Sam spoke up.

            “The burden of saving your friend isn’t yours to bear alone.  Not anymore.  Neither is the need to know everything.  It’s what it means to be a part of a team.  You have strengths we don’t have, and we have strengths you don’t have.” The younger Winchester assured the detective.

            “I still have no idea what you expect me to be able to do for you, in this world and with this sort of injury,” Sherlock said haltingly, like a troubled teenager unwilling to give in to the cooperation idea so easily.

            “Well neither do we so two positives make a negative, don’t they?” Dean offered with a wry smile.  “But please, can we have this heart to heart inside?  I for one am starving,”  The elder Winchester did not stick around for an answer but instead kicked open the screen door and hauled Cas with him indoors.

            “We uh, picked up takeout on the way in.  Hope you like Chinese,” Sam told the Doctor, leading the way back into Bobby’s house.

            A few moments later, once Dean had dumped the angel on the sofa and banged on the AC generator until it started working satisfactorily, the party attacked the Chinese takeout until everyone had something, with the one exception of Sherlock, who apparently had no appetite for anything but deep thought.

            “Alright.  So where do we start?” The Doctor asked, looking around.

            “Start?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

            “Exchanging accounts of what went down?  Obviously yours was a success to a degree but…”

            “But at the last minute it turned out Watson had made a deal with the devil,” Dean spat.  It wasn’t that he was angry with Watson it was more… disgust at the turn of events in general.

            “The devil?  Lucifer?” The Doctor asked, frowning.

            “Just a phrase Doctor.  Crowley was the demon who made a deal with Watson, according to the contract,” Sam explained.

            “Canton?  That’s impossible.  He was with me!”

            “Well Crowley does know how to get around.  He could’ve been crossing over into Sherlock-land long before any of us did,” Dean theorized.

            “Yeah but the contract… it was directed towards us.  To help us.  And it included stuff for the Doctor… I’d say it was made really recently.”

            “Stuff for me?  What stuff?” The Doctor perked up at Sam’s words.

            “Oh right it was… um… a generation?  Something like that?”

            “One Regeneration,” Cas coughed from over on the couch.  The Doctor’s felt an icy shock settle over him.

            “What?!”

            “Yeah that was it.  A regeneration.  Wasn’t that something to do with how Time Lords survive mortal injuries?”

            “Yes but… how…” The Doctor was thinking fast.  “How could that even be possible?  That technology is far beyond anything Earth will have.  Ever!”

            “Doctor, you really don’t know Crowley.” Sam said with a smile.

            “ _Sold sin to saints for centuries_!” Dean pulled a terrible mock British accent, waving his beer around.

            “It’s not technology, it’s magic.  It bends the fabric of reality temporarily in order to introduce a new reality – in this case, your technology,” Castiel explained to the Time Lord.

            “Amazing.” Breathed the Doctor, flexing his hands excitedly.  “Why the potential of those deals alone-”

            “Hey, hey!  Don’t lose sight of the important things – the deals with the devil are something we DO NOT make.  Don’t even think of making one,” Dean snapped his fingers under the Doctor’s nose, drawing the Time Lord’s attention back to the present.

            “Why not?” The Doctor asked, curious.

            “Because the friggin’ price is way too high!” Dean told him incredulously.

            “There’s only one price for a Crossroads deal – your soul,” Sam explained, “or in this case, Watson’s.”

            “And no matter what might be able to get from a deal, there’s nothing worth that.” Dean finished, eyes hard.  “We learned that the hard way.  Several times.”

             An awkward silence fell on the group, as the Doctor took in all this information.  The wheels in Sherlock’s mind seemed to be turning as well, though it was hard to guess how much of it was sticking, as his rigidly structured brain might still be rejecting some of it on principle alone.

            “Well… I think it’s high time I got a look at this contract of Watson’s.” The Doctor said, sitting forward.

            “Um, yeah, that’s not gonna happen.” Sam started awkwardly.  The Doctor turned to look at him, confusion across his features.

            “Demon deal contracts aren’t written on paper…” Dean informed him.

            “They’re written on the customer’s skin,” Sherlock finished somewhat inaudibly, as if for once a single detail was enough to disquiet him.  Again, a moment passed where the Doctor took all of this in.

            “And Watson is…”

            “Dragged off by a Hell Hound, as I have gathered from context clues.  Presumably, his contract expired,” Sherlock informed him, now visibly making an effort to stay objective, despite his emotional involvement in the case.

            “No.  That couldn’t have happened,” Sam said instantly, and Dean looked equally thoughtful.  “Crowley’s deals are for ten years – and he’s always been extremely obsessed with the integrity of that one thing alone.”

            “Could this deal have been an exception?” The Doctor asked.

            “It’s possible – my deal was only for one year,” Dean told him.  “But my deal wasn’t with Crowley, and it was a special case… uh, situation…” The elder Winchester trailed off as both the Doctor and Sherlock turned to look at him in disbelief.  Even Sherlock with his unseeing gaze managed to pull off the ‘You-made-a-deal,-you-hypocrite!?’ look.

            “Hey like I said, we learned our lesson the hard way!” Dean said crossly.

            “Still…,” Sam considered, “The way the whole scene went down was pretty ‘special case’.  Like that one top dog… and then… wait a second,” Sam looked up at Dean sharply.

            “Watson wasn’t torn to shreds.  He was taken.  Alive!” The younger Winchester realized aloud.

            “I gather that’s atypical?” The Doctor queried.

            “Standard Hellhound M.O. is to rip the target up and just drag the soul down,” Dean told him bluntly, “All the pain of death to be followed by all the pain of Hell.”

            “But John was taken alive,” Sherlock interrupted.

            “Yeah… well, at least he was last time we saw him,” Sam acknowledged.  The Doctor considered this thoughtfully.

            “What are you playing at Canton…?” The Time Lord mused aloud.

            “I’ll tell you what he’s playing: hostage.  Crowley’s done it before to protect his ass, and he’s doing it again now.  We need to move fast before they attempt to harness the leverage they already have.”

            “They?” the Doctor turned to the elder Winchester.  “What makes you so sure Canton is working with the enemy?”

            “Call it a hunch.  You yourself said he was captured during your trip downstairs.  When he’s in tight situations, Crowley’s only care in the world is survival,” Dean described.

            “Revenge is always an afterthought, whenever he can afford the luxury of time to plan his evil schemes,” Sam added.

            “It sounds to me like you two are overlooking a critical piece of information,” Sherlock interrupted them, staring unseeingly at the wall.  “You said it yourself – this Crowley is a schemer… if that’s the case, I think you should be more concerned with the fact he either was incarcerated, or knew he was going to be shortly WHILE he was making the deal with Watson.”

            It would’ve been silent except for the nearly audible turning of wheels inside the Winchesters heads.

            “The note he left within the contract!” Sherlock reminded them exasperatedly, “How could you forget a critical piece of information like that?”

            The Winchesters exchanged glances.  The Doctor looked delighted.

            “What did this note say?”

            “Cheek and sass – a typical note from Crowley.” Sam rolled his eyes.

            “I believe the exact words were: ‘Merry Christmas Boys.  Enjoy the prezzy.  Kisses, C.’  He also included a post-script that instructed them not to be concerned with rescuing, though I suspect that might have been sarcasm,” Castiel had gotten to his feet, but was still swaying slightly.

            “Merry Christmas?  Isn’t it July?” The Doctor looked confused.

            “We believe it was a subtle reference to the fact John Watson’s deal was built like a Christmas Tree Bill,” Castiel explained.

            “Ah of course.  Many things attached to a sure bill to pass them all at once.  That’s illegal in most galaxies nowadays.  As are lawyers.” The Doctor said absentmindedly.  “But I digress – what was the core bill?”

            “He uh,” Sam started awkwardly, “handed over his soul for the chance to see Sherlock again.”

            The Doctor was very quiet for a moment, before he turned to Sherlock.

            “I hope you appreciate how lucky you are to have a friend like John Watson.”

            The consulting detective said nothing, but looked disturbed enough that the Doctor felt satisfied.  After eyeing him for a moment, he sighed and turned back to the Winchesters.

            “Well I suppose we ought to make plans to rescue them then...” The Time Lord stood, but he was cut short.

            “No,” Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

            “Sorry?”

            “I said no, we don’t need to make plans to rescue them,” Sherlock elaborated firmly.

            “Sherlock, Watson is in _Hell_.  If there’s any place you don’t want to be…” Sam began, but the consulting detective stopped him short too.

            “I’m very aware of how unpleasant such a place is supposed to be,” He said calmly, “but I also seem to be the only one comprehending your unappreciated friend Mr. Crowley.”

            “Okay Poindexter, why don’t you share with the rest of the class?” Dean invited, unimpressed.

            “I’m not sure how things are here, but in my world, the universe is hardly so lazy so as to throw coincidences at us left and right.  When things are abnormal, usually there’s a reason.  And more often than not in my line of work, such abnormalities are part of a plan,” Sherlock explained, with a small amount of his usual arrogance in his voice.

            “The abnormality of John’s deal sends up all sorts of red flags, even though I have no idea how such proceedings go forward.  The mere fact that it is atypical should be enough to start you thinking – but more than that, the man… demon… sent you a ridiculously blatant note that spelled out his plan for you, to let you know what he had done, and what he was doing!” Sherlock seemed to harbor almost a personal disappointment for the Winchester’s lack of observational intuitiveness.

            “It’s one thing to play both sides of the table – survivalists can be counted on to do such a thing, alternating to serve their best interests.  But what is NEVER in their best interest is to play boost both sides at the exact time.  The only thing that would foster is conflict, which always has the potential to do collateral damage that might extend to or include the survivalist among the casualties.”

            “So what you’re saying is…” Sam began.

            “This demon of yours sent you a massive gift in the form of John’s Christmas Tree Bill,” Sherlock finished, “and while it’s possible he could be doing it merely to gain your trust in order to betray you later, one thing we can count on is the way traitors go about gaining trust – with spotlessly pure actions.”

            “So as long as he’s trying to gain our trust, for good or bad end games, we can trust his present actions,” Dean surmised, “because he’s either really helping us, or really helping us so we’ll trust him so he can betray us.”

            “Exactly.”

            “Well that’s just peachy,” Dean threw up his hands and turned away, exasperated.

            “But what does any of this have to do with Watson?” Sam asked.

            “Well that’s another matter entirely.” Sherlock turned his head in the direction of Sam’s voice.  “While it’s also possible that he is being sarcastic and would very much like our aid in retrieving him… the abnormality of John’s damnation-while-still-alive, and the highly structured and planned nature of the deal… coupled with the fact you clearly don’t like him, a fact he probably is well aware of…”

            “He planned it all.  Watson being taken down there is just a part of his own plan to escape,” Sam realized.

            “Son of a bitch!” Dean said, disturbed by the implications.  “Does he have no boundaries?!”

            “He is a demon Dean,” Castiel reminded him unhelpfully.

            “We should’ve put a knife into that limey bitch years ago,” Dean said angrily, “so shit like this wouldn’t come back to haunt us.”

            “As much as your sentiment is appreciated Dean, it’s hardly helpful at the moment,” Sherlock declared, massaging his temples.

            “Well sorry if I’m a little off put.” Dean returned irritably, “As a former inmate of Hell myself, I can tell you first hand no one deserves to be there for a minute.  Even the people who wind up there naturally, you end up feeling bad for.”

            “Well what should we do?  Or should we do anything?” Sam asked, brow furrowed with concern.

            “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Sherlock agreed absentmindedly, “As much as I want to race to John’s side, there’s hardly anything I can do for him.  And you two have already showcased your planning comprehension abilities quite sufficiently for one day…”

            “Besides, we have no way of getting to Hell,” The Doctor chimed in unhelpfully.

            “Please.  Going to Hell is like a walk in the park for Cas.  Isn’t that right, Cas?” Dean turned to face the angel, who was still looking disturbingly pale.

            “I am… not sure if I’m strong enough to accomplish such a feat.” Castiel admitted unhappily.  Dean looked slightly crestfallen.

            “Well, we can always find a rogue reaper again,” Sam suggested.

            “Yeah because that worked so well last time,” Dean replied sarcastically.

            “You all are missing the point,” Sherlock interrupted,  “as much as your instinct might tell you to make the first move, there really is nothing more dangerous than interfering with a plan that’s already in action.  Since we know so little of it, except that it’s very likely in our favor, regardless of endgame intentions, there is nothing we should do except wait to see if it is pulled off successfully.”

            “So that’s your great plan to save your best friend in the whole world?” Dean asked critically, “Wait for a demon to do it for you?  And not just any demon – the one demon who dragged him down to Hell in the first place.”

            “That’s the plan,” Sherlock returned, a nasty edge to his voice.

            “Well,” Dean said, half pity laughing, “remind me never to choose you as a best friend.”

            “Dean, enough,” Sam told off his brother, but neither the elder Winchester nor Sherlock was finished.

            “What exactly would you have me do then?  What exactly CAN I do, in this state?  With what I know?” Sherlock asked indignantly.

            “Problems are just something that needs to be overcome, not something that stops you from doing what you know you’re supposed to do!” Dean argued, “It doesn’t matter if you don’t have any nukes – we find a way to make up for the lack of power with something else.  We always do, and it always works.  What we DON’T do is give up on friends and family!” When the hunter had finished, he grabbed his beer and stormed out of the room, clearly done with the discussion for the moment.

            “Please excuse Dean… this just… hits really close to home for us.” Sam apologized, before following his brother exasperatedly.

            The Doctor watched them go, a gloomy weight settling on his chest.  This messy family business was so… not him.

            “What did Dean make his deal for?” Sherlock asked out of the blue.  Cas looked up, realizing the question was directed at him.

            “His brother of course.  In the midst of another demon’s scheme, Sam was stabbed in the back, and he died rather quickly.  Dean made a deal to bring him back, but as Dean was the real prize the demons wanted, they made his deal a single year, instead of the usual ten,” Castiel recounted.

            “How did he get out of it?”

            “He didn’t.  He went to Hell, and broke the first seal that started the Apocalypse,” Castiel said flatly, “by the time I got there and raised him from perdition, it was too late.”

            The conversation experienced another flat line at this blunt statement.  Only after a few minutes of awkward silence had passed, the Doctor finally gave in to the tangible need to speak.

            “You know, Sherlock, despite the slight tizzy we’re in, I think you’ve already proved yourself quite useful to us.”

            “Only because it would seem logic is not anyone’s strong suit here.” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

            “Which is a great reason as to why we have you!” The Doctor smiled.

            Sherlock was silent for a moment, before the frustration bubbled up again.

            “Bringing some slight purpose to my existence still doesn’t change the fact Dean is right,” the consulting detective declared at length. “If I only had the slightest idea where to start, I would focus on saving John in a heartbeat.”

            “But you said-” Castiel began to voice his confusion.

            “I KNOW what I said,” Sherlock stopped him frustratedly.  “But what I’m saying now, is that I don’t have to like it, or even support it.  Except that my uselessness makes it my only option.”

            “You’re not useless-” The Doctor started.

            “Not to you.  But I’m useless to John.  And I’m useless to myself and my own brain.  I can’t see, and even I could, I wouldn’t be able to deduce whatever I could lay eyes on.   What exactly do you expect me to find comfort in?  Being a font of logic for you simpletons the rest of my life?” Sherlock spat.  The outburst stung like all outbursts had a tendency to do, but the Doctor knew where Sherlock was coming from.  It wasn’t meant to be taken personally by anyone except the detective himself.

            “I suppose it’s only karma, the one thing that set me apart from other men so spectacularly, now being utterly useless.  My equipment is broken, and my software is out of date.  Permanently in both cases!” Sherlock half laughed heartlessly at his own predicament.

            “Surely you are not above learning new material?” Castiel asked with a frown. “The Winchesters do research all the time.”

            “Yes well the _Winchesters_ have a background education that extends their entire lives,” Sherlock reminded the angel, irritated.  “It would take me at least a year to cover all the basics they know.”

            Castiel thought over this for a moment – the Doctor knew it was still hard, to some degree, for the angel to grasp human problems that concerned time and the way it often ran out.

            “There are… ways to gain information quickly,” Castiel disclosed at length, his features still set in a pondering look.  The Doctor froze, memories suddenly coming at him unbidden.

            “Define quickly,” Sherlock sat forward, interested.

            “Well if I was at full power, I could impart knowledge with just a touch,” Castiel informed him.  “I’m reasonably confident Crowley is capable of such mental manipulation.  But I am nearly powerless, and Crowley is…”

            “Elsewhere occupied.  Funny how that works out,” Sherlock slumped back, disappointed.

            “In perfect honesty, it might be better not to consider such a thing, were it possible,” Castiel told him. “While it might be a swift solution, such an overload of information has a tendency to...”

            “Break your mind.”

The other two turned to look at the Doctor after he so suddenly and flatly interrupted them.

            “I know of a way as well.  But it was an accident, and it didn’t end well for her.” He said quietly.

            “Could you recreate such an accident?” Sherlock inquired, once again not bothering to hide his interest.

            “I…” The Doctor began, but paused.  The extra regeneration Canton had gotten him – it had to be for a reason.

            “Yes.” The Doctor said simply, not looking at the consulting detective, whose eagerness was exactly the sort of thing that would break the Time Lord’s heart.

            “And?”

            “And I will,” The Time Lord continued, “but only if, after hearing all it will cost you, you still find yourself capable of such a sacrifice.”

            “What do we need?”  Sherlock was all business.

            “Castiel, you should go retrieve one of the Winchester’s sharpest blades, possibly a gun, some bandages and stitching, and the Winchesters themselves.” The Doctor told the angel, resigned.

            “The Winchesters don’t need to be a part of this discussion.” Sherlock commented, eyes narrowing.

            “No… but they have an uncommon amount of experience regarding stupid decisions.”

            “More than anyone else I’ve ever met.” the angel acknowledged solemnly, before leaving the room.

            “But the Winchesters and I have something in common.” Sherlock countered, turning to the Time Lord.

            “No sacrifice is too great for those you love.  Or saving the world.” He declared confidently.  The Doctor smiled sadly, seeing a thousand faces in the detective’s words.

            “That was what I was afraid you’d say.”


	21. Lending a Hand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GORE WARNING: THIS CHAPTER HAS GORE. YOU ARE WARNED.

SuperWho **Lock**

 

            “You want to **_what_**!?”

            Sherlock winced at the incredulity in Dean’s voice, uniquely reminiscent of the detective’s own nagging common sense in the back of his mind.

             “It’s nothing more than a procedure the good Doctor here has brought to the table as a viable option to aid our current situation.” Sherlock said lightly, massaging his temples.  Dealing with the Winchesters was predictably proving to be beyond his capacity for patience.  They were unlike any other individuals he had gone head to head with before.  Insufferable morons he could deal with; ones that inexplicably insisted upon an obsessive interest in his wellbeing, despite being total strangers… hardly so.  They were as impossible to deal with as they were to understand.

            “A viable option?  He said it could fry your brain!” Sam protested, glancing back at the Doctor, who nodded grimly in confirmation.

            “Drastic times call for drastic measures.  Both of you have sacrificed more for less of a chance than this, or so I was told…” Sherlock tilted his head, hoping the dig would prove enough of a checkmate to advance the conversation.

            “What’s the chance of this working, anyway?” Dean turned to the Doctor.

            “To my knowledge, it only happened once before… as an accident – but I suppose that would make the success rate 100%,” the Time Lord confessed.

            “Oh great.  An accident,” the hunter threw up his arms, dubious.

            “Dean, Sherlock has informed us that in order to be an asset to our team, he will be of little use until he acquires a complete compendium of knowledge in order to ply his trade effectively,” Castiel interrupted the elder Winchester, “If he is willing to risk his life and sanity for the pursuit of aiding our cause, it is not our place to stop such a worthwhile sacrifice.”

            “It is when it’s a senseless sacrifice that won’t amount to anything!” Dean argued with the angel, the two lapsing into one of their glare matches.

            “Doctor, how would this procedure work anyway?” Sam inquired of the Time Lord, “It’s one thing to have seen something done before… but can we recreate such conditions?  We only have man-made technology here…” Sam gestured about Bobby’s sadly rather mundane living room.

            “Interestingly enough Sam, this procedure seems to work primarily off of latent regeneration energy – a sort of beneficial radiation that Time Lords produce naturally when they are dying.” The Doctor said with a smile at the younger Winchester’s curiosity.

            “Dying?! You have to die to do this ‘procedure’?!” Dean asked, incredulous, “How in any universe would that be helpful?!”

            “As he explained before, Time Lords are very difficult to kill due to their inherent ability to regenerate.  Instead of dying, their physical anatomy undergoes a violent release of radiation which changes their DNA into a fresh new form, uninjured and perfectly capable of living where the past one’s time was up.” Sherlock summarized, looking at the Doctor to make sure he had spoken correctly.

            “That’s about the size of it.” The Doctor confirmed, “Now, Time Lords traditionally have only twelve regenerations – and I’ve already used all of mine…”

            “But Crowley gave you another regeneration in Watson’s contract.” Sam recalled suddenly and the Doctor nodded.

            “That’s what you tell me.”

            “Would that even work?  An extension to your life?” Dean asked.  Castiel coughed, unimpressed.

            “If there’s one thing Crowley’s good at, it’s extending lives through Crossroads deals.  He has half the government of this country in contracts on that item alone.” Castiel told them.

            “Old white men whose retirement is long overdue… makes sense.” Dean considered.

            “In my tenth regeneration – which was actually my eleventh, but that’s a long story – I was mortally wounded.  But, taking a new form is well… it’s like becoming a new person.  And I wasn’t quite done being my tenth self.  I was quite good looking and as that doesn’t happen all that often, it pays to um…”

            The Doctor trailed in mid-thought as the rest of the room stared at him.

            “Right, hm.  A bit vain too, I suppose.  At any rate, as the fatality of the wound set in, my body began to undergo regeneration.  And like the clever quick thinker I thought I was at the time, I quickly used only enough energy to heal myself, before channeling the rest into my severed hand, using it as a dead end radiation storage container if you will.”

            “Your severed hand?” Dean’s expression was somewhere between disturbed, concerned and/or disbelief.

            “Another long story I’m afraid, and hardly relevant at the moment,” The Doctor brushed off the question, “The point of THIS story is that the radiation was too much for the hand – it eventually reached a critically energized peak, at which a companion of mine coincidentally happened to touch it causing an instantaneous biological meta-crisis.”

            “Sorry?” Sam blinked.

            “The hand contained a great deal of energy, but that unique radiation was designed for massive amounts of instantaneous reconstruction, not storage.  The introduction of another DNA sample caused the already unstable container to crack and release the impending regeneration, with unique results I imagine.” Castiel stated, looking at the Doctor curiously.

            “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” the Doctor beamed at the angel, “Two things happened rather swiftly – the hand extended into a full clone of my tenth regeneration, though one whose DNA was mixed with human and therefore not truly Time Lord.  And my companion…

            “Gained the mind of a Time Lord.” Sherlock finished smugly.  The Doctor looked at him, with that same slightly pained and very concerned look.

            “Well… yes.” The Time Lord finished, unable to deny the truth.  “But it did come at a great price.”

            “Price?” Dean’s brow furrowed at the catch he had been waiting for.

            “The human mind is not strong enough to hold the complexities of the Time Vortex, which perpetually runs through a Time Lord’s mind.  Forcing a mind to hold far beyond its capacity… well, it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.”

            “Of course.  That sounds freakin fantastic.  Tell me, why are we even considering this?” Dean asked, glaring at Cas pointedly.

            “How long is ‘a matter of time’?” Sam inquired.

            “Last time… it was only a few hours.” The Doctor confessed sadly.  The reaction on the Winchesters faces was clear.  Despite the fact he could not see them, Sherlock knew something had to be said.

            “But was your companion a genius?  I am by no means intending to further my own reputation at this point in time, but the fact remains: my brain far surpasses the capabilities of most ‘humans’!” the consulting detective protested.

            “That is also true.” The Doctor nodded his head in thoughtful agreement.

            “This is ridiculous.  We’re not going to let you throw away your sanity and your life for a few hours in god mode!” Dean argued.

            “Dean-” Sam tried to reign in his brother.

            “What happens after you pop, huh?  What then?!”

            Sherlock had a hand over his mouth, clearly thinking of the inevitable himself.  After a moment however, he gestured to the Doctor.  The Winchesters turned to the Time Lord expectantly.

            “When Donna… my companion that this happened to before… when her mind could no longer function, I was able to reset it completely, to seal the Time Vortex and all the memories related to it deep within her mind.  She no longer remembers me or any of her travels with me.  But she is safe… and happy I hope.”

            “Like Death’s wall!” Sam said instantly, looking at Dean.  Dean frowned.

            “Well I don’t know how this Donna’s doing, but I can tell you out experience with walls and keeping massive secrets isn’t too positive.” Dean said unenthusiastically.  Off to the side, Castiel shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

            “I could do the same thing for Sherlock – If we manage to save the world and solve all of this… Afterwards we place him back in his own world, there should be almost no risk of him remembering any of this… and therefore he would be perfectly safe to continue living his life.  Just as it was.”

            Silence fell for a moment, as the group considered.

            “All of this discussion is irrelevant.  It’s my mind – I can choose to do with it as I please.” Sherlock said, brusquely waving as if to completely sweep the Winchesters’ input out of the conversation.

            “And as your caretakers by necessity, we can choose to tell you it’s a stupid idea to risk so much for something that may or may not work.” Dean returned crossly.  Sherlock opened his mouth to no doubt issue a crushing reply, but he never got the chance, as the Doctor interrupted again.

            “There is… one thing more,” The Doctor said hesitantly.  The rest ceased their argument and looked to him.

            “As regeneration energy is… well, regenerative.  There is a good chance – I’d say probably in the 90th percentile… that it will heal Sherlock’s sight,” the Time Lord informed them.  There was a long pause.

            “I want to go through with it.” The detective’s voice firm statement came unnecessarily.  There was no one in the room who had suspected any other opinion from him.

            Dean opened his mouth to protest, but this time Sam held out a hand.

            “Dean, Cas is right.  It’s not our place to stop his sacrifice if he wants to make it,” the younger Winchester said solemnly.

            “Sammy that’s a load of bull and you know it!” Dean turned on his brother.  Sam was above arguing though, and merely looked at his brother pointedly.  This unspoken reminder was enough to silence the elder Winchester, though Dean looked by no means satisfied with the decision.

            “Alright.  Now that that’s resolved… how do we proceed?” Sherlock clapped his hands together and rubbed them eagerly.  Castiel moved forward at the detective’s inquiry.

            “I retrieved the items requested.” the angel told the Doctor, raising a plastic grocery bag.

            “Good, good…  now I know in order to successfully pull this off, it probably would be the best course of action to copy everything as close to the original process as possible but…” the Doctor quickly seized Castiel’s bag and started digging through it absentmindedly.

            “But what?” Both Winchesters and Castiel asked in unison.

            “But I would rather not have another clone running around… much less one with Sherlock’s personality.  It would be a much better use to put all of the regeneration energy into Sherlock’s mind.”

            “Wouldn’t that risk overloading it sooner?” Sam asked frowning.

            “Possibly.  But just as possibly it might lend itself to rewriting his DNA more successfully into something that can contain a Time Lord’s intelligence more successfully.  Regardless, in order to attempt such a thing we’ll need to permanently prevent another clone from sprouting from my severed limb… ” the Doctor said, still rummaging through the bag, “Ah ha!”

            “Fishing line and a tomato pincushion?” Sam asked, slightly concerned as the Doctor pulled the items out with a flourish.

            “What on Earth are those for?” the confidence drained seemed to drain rather rapidly from Sherlock’s face at the announcement of the items.

            The Doctor had continued pulling out several other equally comforting items, including heavy bandages and a tourniquet.  Last but not least, he produced a large knife that looked like it had been retrieved from Bobby’s kitchen.

            “Oh this scene has Medical School written all over it.” Dean commented sarcastically.

            “You know Doctor, we do have real medical stitches… Cas is just used to us using fishing line.” Sam offered.

            “I’m sorry, but did I **_miss_** something?  I clearly recall you saying several times it was only a touch that instigated exchange of DNA,” Sherlock mentioned, growing paler by the second.

            “Right.  But while we are attempting to recreate an accident, it is not fundamentally an accident this time around.  Which gives us the chance to remedy some of the more ridiculous side effects.  Like the clone.”

            “I won’t deny we have enough doppelgangers running around at the moment…” Dean muttered to Sam.

            “But… fishing line and a pincushion?  You’ll be regenerating – you won’t need them.  Surely you don’t intend to…” Sherlock trailed off.  He realized he knew exactly what the Doctor intended.

            “It needs to be reattached somewhere so it’s prevented from growing outwards.” The Doctor explained grimly.  “I would reattach it to myself but, the regeneration will already be in effect and I will be growing a new hand too quickly…”

            Dean smiled smugly like a petulant child who had proven his point.  Every further bit of evidence was reinforcing his position that this was a bad idea.

            Sherlock sighed.

            “Alright.  Do it.”

            The Doctor nodded and gestured to the others to start helping him prepare.  Neither of the Winchesters seemed to quite believe they were actually assisting in this twisted process, but they carried out the Doctor’s orders as he gave them, Dean applying a tourniquet to Sherlock’s forearm, Cas spreading a new plastic tablecloth over a TV tray to create a pseudo-operating table, and Sam sterilizing and prepping both the knife and the stitching needle to the best of his ability.

            “Okay.  That’s the best prep we can give you.” Sam said as he finished his task, and moved to stand next to Dean and Cas.

            “Alright.  I’ll need a jar of ice for my hand and… well, do you want to keep yours too?” the Doctor glanced down at Sherlock, who was whiter than a sheet and looked in no condition to respond.  “Hmm yes, I think we’ll make that two jars of ice.  He’ll probably want it later.” the Doctor decided for him.  Cas quickly left to get them.

            “I… know it’s a bit of an awkward request, but I think I would prefer it if one of you two would do the honors.” the Doctor said hesitantly, tilting his head in the direction of the 9mm pistol on the desk nearby, “It wouldn’t feel right if I did it myself… and I think I’d prefer it in the chest rather than the head.”

            Dean looked repulsed by the idea, but Sam nodded curtly and moved to grab the gun.

            “Once it starts you all should get out of the room – regenerations can be… explosive.  I also don’t want to risk the regeneration energy channeling into any of you.” the Doctor told them as Castiel reappeared with the two jars of ice, setting them on the desk.

            “Thank you Castiel.  Alright, shall we get this over with then?” the Time Lord asked no one in particular.

            “Yes.” Sherlock found his voice.  “The sooner the better.”

            “Alright.  Lean back and uh…” the Doctor glanced hesitantly towards the Winchesters, but Sam was already there, offering his belt.

            “Right, you probably ought to put this between your teeth…”

            Sherlock closed his eyes, and the Time Lord steeled himself, visible sweat dripping down his brow.  Though the Doctor knew enough to know counting down aloud would only serve to panic Sherlock, it didn’t stop him from mouthing it to himself.

            Three.  Two.  _ONE._

            The sound of the knife slicing through flesh was surprisingly mundane.  To anyone who might have had the pleasure of being in a butcher shop when a new shipment was being processed, it would have been almost familiar, as there is not really that much difference between the muscle and fat of a human versus other animals.   But the calmness of the butcher shop was not mirrored in Bobby’s living room, as the difference between dead animals and a live human being are in contrast, very very different.

            Whatever hypnotic tranquility the scene had possessed a moment before was now broken half a second later with Sherlock’s blood curdling cry that was really not muted at all by the leather clamped between his teeth.

            It was there and then it was gone.  It was almost as if he could still feel it.  But no, it was missing.  It was almost a good thing the pain was there, for it was the only thing keeping Sherlock from coming to the full realization of what it was like to miss an appendage.

            As soon as the deed was complete, the Doctor moved back, almost shell-shocked by what he had just done.  Castiel and Sam quickly moved to Sherlock to cover the bleeding stump left behind.  Dean took one look at the Doctor, and then took up the role himself to pick up Sherlock’s severed hand and put it in the ice jar.

            The consulting detective was doing as well as someone who had just had his hand cut off typically did.  His hair was damp with sweat and as Castiel gingerly removed the belt in his mouth, Sherlock leaned over and vomited into the bucket Sam wisely had waiting.  When he was done, he sank back, gasping out of pain and a need for air.

            “It looks like he has just under three minutes of adrenaline left before he will go unconscious.” Castiel reported to the Doctor, carefully examining Sherlock, who was in too much of a state of shock to speak for himself.

            “Well I guess it’s my turn then.  Dean?”

            The elder Winchester had just finished gingerly placing the severed hand in one of the jars and screwing on the lid.  Startled by the Time Lord’s sudden address, Dean barely had enough time to wipe the comically disgusted look off his face in order to fully realize his next current task.

            “Right,” He swallowed hard.  “Sure thing.”

            Dean handed Sherlock’s severed appendage to Castiel then moved forward and reluctantly accepted the now wiped clean knife from Sam.  Castiel took Sherlock’s hand into the kitchen.

            “Ready Sam?” the Doctor looked to the younger Winchester, who nodded curtly, the 9mm unusually tight in his hand.

            “And Sherlock?  How are you doing?” the Doctor looked over in his direction.

            “How… do you think?” Sherlock gasped, his voice cracking with pain.

            “Sarcasm.  That’s good.  Keep it up.  It’s imperative you remain functional to complete the last part of the procedure,” the Doctor instructed before looking to the others. “Remember: only Sherlock can touch the hand.  If anyone else does… the whole process will be for nothing.”

            “How are we supposed to sew it on then?” Dean asked critically.

            “I’ll… hold it in place…” Sherlock breathed.  The Doctor nodded.

            “And the rest of you… go don those latex gloves.  Alright, enough talking.  We need to get this next part over with before Sherlock collapses.”  The Doctor finished, taking the belt from a waiting Castiel, and biting down on it hard.

            The ritual was fairly the same, despite the fact it was a Time Lord now undergoing the procedure.  The Doctor closed his eyes, accepting his fate, and Dean counted down to himself as he steeled himself to perform the deed.

            The Doctor’s scream was every bit as ear shattering and unnerving as Sherlock’s was – perhaps a bit more as the Doctor instantly dropped the belt out of his mouth to favor gasping as tears streamed down his face.

            “Quick Sam… do it quickly…” the Doctor’s request came through ragged breathing.  Dean moved out of the way swiftly with the Doctor’s severed hand, to place it in the second ice jar, positioned a little ways away from the Doctor, within reach of Sherlock.  Then the hunter stood back, next to Castiel.

            Sam’s face hardened as he raised the gun.  A few seconds passed and for a brief instant it seemed the younger Winchester could not bring himself to do it.

            Then he fired.  Once.

            The Doctor gasped and staggered, using his remaining hand to grab the desk for support.

            Sam began to lower the gun but the Doctor instantly protested.

            “NO!  It’s not working yet!  You have to… hit the other one!” the Time Lord could barely speak for all the pain he was in.  As he glanced up however, the Doctor saw Sam’s confusion.

            “My other HEART!  I have TWO of them!” the Doctor nearly shouted, his voice laced with agony.

            Sam’s hands were shaking as he lifted the gun a second time.  And fired.

            As the bullet punctured the Doctor’s second heart, the Time Lord was knocked backward, no longer possessing the strength nor control to resist the force of impact.  He hit the desk with a thud, then crumpled to the floor.

            For a moment nothing happened, and in that fleeting moment of heightened sensitivity, the terrifying thought coursed through the room that the Doctor had really just been shot dead.  Then…

            “Is that… light?” Even though it had been their goal to cause the regeneration, the incredible sight was something Dean couldn’t help but voice his amazement at.  The Doctor could not speak, but he tried to get up slightly, using a hand and his own bleeding stump to support himself.  But the severely injured limb proved unable to support any weight, and the Doctor collapsed again.

            At the sight, both Winchesters moved forward on instinct to go help the Time Lord, but Castiel held them back.

            “We should go.” the angel said urgently, grabbing the two Winchesters by the arms and tugging them back out of the room.

            “Wait a minute.”  Sam moved forward, seized the jar containing the Doctor’s hand and placed it in Sherlock’s lap.

            “All yours.”

            “T-thanks,” Sherlock seemed close to unconsciousness, but he still managed to pour some of his sarcastic personality into his acceptance of the severed hand with a tired smile.

            “Good luck,” Sam told him genuinely, before hurriedly turning to leave the room to take shelter in the kitchen with Dean and Castiel.

            Sherlock could not see what was happening, but he could **_feel_** the change in the atmosphere.  The air was charged with energy – not quite a heat, but a buzzing radiation.  There was a high pitched noise between a machinelike whine and a whistle.  Then it really happened.

            To one who could not see anything, it felt like an explosion.  It sounded like one as well.  And yet, the waves of heat were not BURNING so much as full of a vibrating energy that filled everything.  Sherlock could FEEL the light on his face, and the power that filled the air.

            Suddenly there was a change in the radiating energy.  At first it had been EVERYWHERE in the room, but then it was suddenly focused.  In a direct stream.  And the target was in Sherlock’s lap.

            Sam’s gesture had been meant kindly.  But as kind misunderstanding gestures often are, it was also very stupid.  For Sherlock, it felt as if someone had placed a laser target in his lap and was now proceeding aim and fire.

            And to be perfectly honest, the situation was not all that different.  The ice in the jar was not only melted but also vaporized as the intense radiation that scattered their molecules into the air.  The jar itself began dripping liquid glass that soon were sliding dangerously close to Sherlock’s lap.

            But as soon as it had started getting serious, everything suddenly stopped.  The beam of energy subsided and as the dust settled, the Winchesters and Castiel warily peaked around the kitchen doorway.

            “All good on my… side of things…” the Doctor raised a newly grown hand and smiled wearily, “but I have to say I am… tired… re-growing limbs… tough business…” and with that the Time Lord collapsed onto the nearby sofa, and slumped over, presumably unconscious.

            “Sherlock?” Sam called, and the party turned its attention towards the other member of the party.

            When the first light show had stopped, Sherlock thought there would be a brief reprieve before they could start with his own reattachment.  But it turned out instead to be one of those rare occasions where Sherlock Holmes was wrong.  Though he still could not see anything, he could feel the radiating energy filling the air again. 

Before they had either been mindlessly everywhere or directed at the hand.  Now however, they were enveloping **_him_**.

            The first time he had been a bystander, subject to the intense almost destructive side as the extra energy discharged.  But this time was different – he was the focus of the regenerative energy, and as it embraced him he felt warm… comforted… then hot as the energy began to induce something akin to a fever.  The regeneration state perhaps.  Most fine craftsmanship first had to be forged and formed in fire, after all.

            The glass jar in his lap shattered, and Sherlock barely raised his bloodied stump in time to shield what was left of his face.  The heat coming off the hand was now incredible, and Sherlock was sure it was glowing.

            He would’ve liked to shove it away and kick it further, anything to get the crazy alien anatomy away from him.  But by now Sherlock had stomached his pain, and however difficult, his mind WOULD remain in control.  It had to.

            So it was with his one remaining shaking hand, he unwound the loose rag around his stump, and then reached forward to grab the Doctor’s glowing appendage in his lap.  As he touched it, Sherlock grimaced and almost dropped it, for it was burning hot.  But as the heat intensified and appeared to be heading towards another explosion, Sherlock turned it around and slammed against the stump

            The explosion commenced and Sherlock felt a searing pain, not only at the tip of the stump, but suddenly shooting up his arm.

            He held it as long as he could, he really did.  Soon it felt as if his entire body was on fire: his arm, his mind, and soon his eyes, which burned more ferociously than all the rest of him – as if fire and electricity were battling it for dominant destructive force.

            In the end it was simply too much, and darkness crept in on his fevered brain.  The explosion seemed to have stopped – but he did not possess enough consciousness to be aware of anything except the strange foreign hand that was now fused to his arm.

            He could feel the steam rising off it.  He could FEEL it.

            It was his now.  It was part of him.

            He was no longer completely human.

            As strange as it was to consider, the thought made him smile as he slipped into darkness.

            What would John think?

**. . .**

            Far, far, away, just as the consulting detective dropped off into unconsciousness, his counterpart was slowly dragged from it.

            Waking up with his head pounding seemed to becoming a regular thing for John Watson, but it didn’t mean he would grow any fonder of the sensation.

            Rubbing his head, the good doctor sat up slowly, cracking his eyes to seedy flickering fluorescent lighting.  His vision swam with his pounding head, but after a moment it cleared.  And the sight before him was not comforting at all.

            He was in a small confining room that could be best described as a rundown clinic patient room.  Broken tiled floor, broken tiled walls with strange metal circles sticking out of them, and a broken mirror on the wall.  There was no furniture in the room, save a tilted operating table that had straps on it, and a smaller instrument table next to it, that had more than a few disturbing  instruments on it.

            John didn’t consider it for long, before he selected three of the tools with the sole purpose of using them to get out.  The scalpel he slid into his shoe for later.  The other two would have to serve as functional lockpicks.

            John moved to the door and inserted both tools, one as a lockpick and the other to apply torque.  As he held them in place with one hand, he used the other to jiggle the handle to start testing tension… and was surprised to find the door was already open.

            Pocketing his two woefully inadequate lockpicks, John pushed the door open cautiously and was rewarded to find himself facing a seemingly endless hallway that was quite as tastelessly bland with a side of creepy as the room he had just come from.

            There was no one in the hallway, and there appeared to be only one way to go.  So with a hard swallow, John Watson set off.

            He had not gone a minute before he came to another door.  Predictably locked.  The retired army doctor spent a good minute trying to open it before he had to come to terms with the fact he just did not have the skill Sherlock had.  Or the Winchesters for that matter.

            Continuing down the hallway, he passed two more doors on the same side of the hallway as his door, and one on the other side.  All the doors were locked and silent.

            Finally through the seedy light, John spotted the end of the hallway – and one more door on his side.

            He expected it to be locked like all the rest, but surprisingly it was not.  John turned the handle and pushed the door open – and instantly wished he had not.

            The room was fundamentally the same as his own had been.  But this one the light cast a terribly disturbing red glow on a horrifying scene.

            The metal circles were for hooking things on apparently, for in this room, massive rusted chains were attached on either side of the room, some pulled taut, other hanging looser.  There were probably about ten in total, and they all met in the middle, wrapped tightly around what appeared to be a corpse.

            Suspended slightly so the feet dragged on the ground, the grotesque figure was clad, as far as John could tell, in the remains of a once fine suit.  But both the suit and its wearer had been burned, slashed, and bloodied far beyond any recognition.  Upon closer examination however, John was dismayed to discover the chains were barbed in the middle, and were actively embedded into the prisoner.

            As disturbed as he was, John couldn’t help the medical expert inside him, and he reached a hand forward to trace one of the chains in its horrifyingly well accomplished torture across the victim’s face, which looked… familiar?

            That was when the corpse shuddered and took a rasping breath.

            “Oh. My god,” John breathed, stepping back.

            The corpse made another rasping sound that might have been a laugh in another lifetime, and then opened blood red eyes to look at John Watson.

            “Guess again,” Crowley grinned.


	22. Customer Service

**Super** WhoLock

            “Oh.  My god.”

            The statement was so full of quiet horror, Crowley couldn’t help but smile despite his condition.  Fear was as amusing as it was beneficial.  Minds overwhelmed with fear and the adrenaline that came with it tended to be easier to… lead.  And getting the newcomer to follow his instructions was possibly the most critical element of Crowley’s design for both of them.

            “Guess again,” Crowley cracked a smile at his guest, before he broke into a fit of coughing that racked through him torturously.  His vessel’s lungs were full of a suspiciously thick fluid, but with every movement the barbed chains that bound him bit deeper into his flesh.  Every minute was not only a struggle to stay conscious, but also to remain as still as possible.

            “What-?  How did…?” the poor man was attempting to form words and failing miserably.  Crowley would’ve found it humorous had his patience not expired a week ago.  Still, the newcomer’s presence was the first glimmer of hope he had had in far too long.  He had been expecting one of his torturers to have returned, but within seconds of the stranger’s arrival, even with his eyes shut Crowley realized it was not whom he had expected, and his mind began to calculate.  The terrified human stranger was practically a gift from God, if the absentee creator of the universe was in the habit of giving gifts to fallen humanity.  Humans were, to Crowley, the manifestation of potential.  Finally, he had something to work with again.

            “I’d be… happy… to answer your first-date questions… if I could breathe a little better,” Crowley spoke raggedly, trying to keep himself from coughing again.  He failed.  The other man’s eyes widened at first as the barbs sunk deeper into the demon’s form, but soon his face hardened and he nodded, assuring himself more than Crowley.

            “How do I know you’re not strung up for a good reason?”

            If Crowley hadn’t had a crown of thorns pressing into his scalp and blood running down his face, he might have rolled his eyes.

            “Unfortunately, we… don’t really have the luxury of time for that conversation.  I’m afraid you’re just going to have choose for yourself: … blind date with yours truly, or stroll back on down the hallway to your own suite… and wait for them to show up and do this to you.”  

            The newcomer closed his eyes and made as if to convince himself to walk away.  It obviously didn’t work.  As soon as he had consigned himself to his fate, he turned around and looked at Crowley again.

            “How do I release you?”

            “Over by the wall,” Crowley directed, trying to hold his breath and speak at the same time.  The man complied and followed one of the chains to the wall.  Crowley closed his eyes and counted for the response he knew was coming.  3… 2… 1…

            “It’s uh… it’s fused to the wall,” The newcomer relayed awkwardly.

            “And here I was… hoping you might have super strength or something useful…” Crowley snarked before gasping sharply as one of the chains tightened around his neck.  There was a tense moment where he felt the darkness of lost consciousness creeping into the edge of his vision, but before long he stabilized again.

            “I’m… not sure how much you’ve been… exposed to as of yet...,” Crowley began slowly, “but I’m going to need you to… work a little magic for me.”

            “Excuse me?” The man asked, only slightly incredulous, “Er, well I hate to break it to you mate, but I’m not exactly Harry Potter…”

            “Magic isn’t an inherent gift – anyone can do it,” Crowley told him swiftly.  That wasn’t entirely true or entirely false – while anyone could work the type of magic that required ingredients, most witches studied for months before they were able to perform their first spell drawing from their soul’s energy alone.  But Crowley didn’t have months.

            “Just… hold the chain in your hand… and repeat after me: _Invocato virtutem regis, da mihi, ignis vestri, abolere inimicos vestros_ ,” Crowley spoke slowly.  For a moment John looked like the request was just too ridiculous.  Then he grabbed the chain.

            “ _Invocato virtutem regis…,_ ” the newcomer chanted a little uncertainly, before looking to Crowley, predictably lost.

            “ _da mihi, ignis vestri, abolere inimicos vestros,_ ” the demon repeated for him.

            “ _da mihi, ignis vestri, abolere inimicos vestros._ ”

            Crowley felt the power as it was drawn out of him.  The chains were engraved with all sorts of symbols and wards that kept him from using any of his demonic powers himself, but they could not stop a human conduit from invoking the King of Hell’s power in proper ritual format.

            The man’s eyes widened as his fingers began to glow as only superheated metal does.  Soon the chains within his fingers melted like butter.

            “Incredible… I can’t feel it at all!” He said excitedly.

            “Careful… it’s about to-” before Crowley could finish his sentence, the chain snapped from where the newcomer was holding it.  As the tension in the entire system was lost, the chains ripped out of Crowley, causing the demon to cry out in pain.  He was then unceremoniously deposited on his knees – and it took all of one second for him to collapse to the ground, where he lay breathing hard and bleeding profusely.

            “Oh my god.  I’m so sorry, The other man was at his side in an instant.

            “I thought… you were a doctor…” Crowley muttered, half delirious with pain as John helped him sit up and began to assess his wounds.

            “Doctor, yes.  Physics professor, no. I…” The newcomer stopped short, “How did you know I was a doctor?” Crowley laughed at this question.

            “I take it you don’t know where we are…  Well, in an effort not to cause your pitifully finite mind to go kerplunk, I’ll keep the story short and tell you only two types of people end up here, in this particular place...  The first is me, brave but stupid enemies of very powerful entities set on destroying the world.  The second is the first’s decidedly more stupid companions who endeavor to rescue them…  Either which way, we’re all card-carrying members of Team Let’s Get Darwin Awards.  Which makes you most likely… Dr. Watson.”

            “You know the Winchesters?!”

            “Better than they know themselves, believe me,” Crowley told him emphatically, before starting to stand up slowly with John’s help, “now, if you ever want to see Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumber again, I suggest we get moving.”

            “You know how to get out of here, then?” John asked, watching him carefully.

            “Let’s hope so.  Either which way, it doesn’t matter.  That little stunt you pulled a moment ago with the magic probably set off a thousand different alarms.  They’ll be here in seconds.”

            “They?”

            “That doesn’t really matter either.  ‘They’ did this to me, so unless you’re a secretly a closet masochist, I should think that’s enough incentive.  However if the former is true, I do invite you to take my place,” the demon gestured to the heap of chains now lying vacant on the floor, “maybe if they forgot their contact lenses, they’ll mistake you for me and it’ll give me at least another five minutes head start,” Crowley rolled his eyes and moved towards the door.

            The demon hadn’t taken two steps before his leg gave out underneath him.  He would have hit the floor hard if Watson hadn’t given in to his natural instinct to help and quickly moved to support him.

            “Damn it,” the demon swore under his breath as he fought the pain.  During the past few weeks, the damage they had done to his vessel was nothing he wouldn’t have been able to heal… but they had also taken time to carve sigils into his flesh, preventing the use of any powers.  He was, for all intents and purposes, confined to the limitations of a mortal for the moment.

            “Look, you clearly aren’t in any condition to be moving, let alone attempting an escape from… wherever we are,” John mentioned, concern written across his face.

            “Yeah, but I’m also not quite feeling in a condition to continue being tortured.  So if you don’t mind… let’s get going.”

            Crowley could feel John’s medical disapproval almost as a tangible force in the room, but just about equal to it was the doctor’s military instinct, which clearly agreed that the best course of action was to move now, and quickly.  So the demon couldn’t help but smile slightly, as John hooked an arm under Crowley’s shoulder to help brace him as they walked.

            To the edge of the room.  Beside the door.  Through the door.  Into the hallway.  Step by step they made their way slowly but surely, the entire experience already chalking up to be the slowest escape either of them had ever been a part of.

            The hallway proved to be still empty, a sight at which both Crowley and Watson breathed a sigh of relief in unspoken thanks.  Still, Crowley couldn’t help the mental clock that had started ticking ever since Watson had release him.  It was at 2 minutes and 56 seconds.  There would only be so many more ticks before they had company, the demon was sure of it.

            As they limped down the hallway like an unnecessarily bloody three legged race team, John glanced back the way he had come and suddenly stopped short.

            “What the hell… the hallway!  I just came from that way!” John gestured, panic creeping into his voice.  Given the tone, and the location, Crowley already knew of what he was speaking, and didn’t bother to turn around, but merely continued attempting to limp forward, forcing John to as well.

            “Don’t worry about it.  Keep moving.”

            “Don’t WORRY about it?!  IT’S GONE!  The Hallway is… it ends earlier!  Your room is the last room now!”

            “I said don’t worry about it, and I mean don’t worry about it.  You can worry about factoring magic and multiple dimensions more completely into your world view later.  Right now, I’ll worry about that sort of thing, and you focus on what you CAN grasp with your pitiful little human mind.  Like our escape, alright?”

            “…Alright,” Watson acknowledged.  The demon’s advice was similar to the advice all soldiers received before heading knowingly into conflict.  Distractions that couldn’t be handled at the moment only ever ended up killing you.

            They continued, moving agonizingly slowly, every further step proving harder than the previous for both of them.  By the time they made about twenty six feet from hallway end, Crowley was sweating profusely and gasping for breath.  John stopped and began to set the demon against the wall.

            “What are you doing?!  We can’t stop here!  We have to keep going!” Crowley hissed aggressively, refusing to rest.

            “There’s no point in ‘escaping’ if the attempt kills you in the process.  Besides, you may be perfectly motivated to exert yourself to death, but I’m not in the shape I used to be,” Watson said, breathing equally as hard as the demon, though without the rasping cough, another of which Crowley had begun to convulse with.  “God, can’t you hear yourself?  You sound like you’re half liquefied inside!”

            “Not liquid so much as smoke,” Crowley said absentmindedly as he winced, bracing his stomach with an arm. 

            “What is that supposed to mean?  Are you a smoker or something?” Watson asked critically, making Crowley smile slightly again.

            “I’ll give you an answer for every five steps we take beyond that door,” Crowley gestured tiredly again towards their current objective.  John sighed and braced the demon up again.

            The background noise of the hallway was your average torture dungeon hallway background noise.  Echoey nothingness, something far off that sounded like muted screams, a dripping leak somewhere.  The sort of sounds that typically made Crowley feel right at home.

            However they hadn’t made it five more steps toward the door when there was a new noise.  Something – no, someONE – was just beyond the door.  Muted voices could be heard, and moving shapes could be seen silhouetted against the reddish light that bled through the small vertical slit window.

            “No…,” Crowley breathed.  Then he shoved John away towards the door.

            “Stop them from getting in!  Hold it closed!”

            Not quite sure what he was doing, John stumbled and ran to the door, where he jammed his shoulder against it.  Suddenly the voices beyond the door began to grow in volume and sound much more antagonistic.  The door began to rattle under his shoulder.  He pressed against it.

            “Tell me you have a plan,” John said in almost a pleading voice.

            “Working on it,” Crowley said, seemingly more preoccupied with maintaining his own balance as he limped slowly, using the wall for support, trying to make his way to the door.

            The severely weakened demon almost fell twice, but when he finally made it to the door, he quickly put both palms against it.  There were blows being rained upon from the other side, but so far John had managed to keep it shut.

            “What are we going to do?” John asked, urgency in his voice.

            “You’re going to keep holding that shut,” Crowley said, focusing on the door.  Several beads of sweat – or was it blood? – dripped down his face as he concentrated.  The sigils restricted his powers but…

            There was a crack that sounded like a broken bone, and Crowley saw red as his eyes flashed.  Power flowed for one unbelievably painful second, as his move to expose and use his demonic nature resulted in the sigils scorching his essence.

            But the desperate move worked, and there was a click in the door.  The blurry window flashed with a white gold light, and Crowley fell back roughly against the wall, once again breathing raggedly.

            “Go.  Open it now,” the demon instructed John.

            “Are you crazy?!” the military doctor nearly yelled.

            “No, genius, it’s a different room now,” Crowley pointed to the window, which now had a much cooler blue light coming through it, “I’ll make sure to enroll you in Magic Dimensional Doors 101 later, but for now…” Crowley trailed off as he began coughing again.  His mouth filled with an iron taste, and he leaned over and spat out no small amount of blood.

            “Right.  We ought to go,” John agreed worriedly, and wrenched open the door.  Then he helped Crowley up and the two limped forward through the exit.  Or was it an entrance?

            The new room they found themselves in was veritably frigid compared to the wing they had been in.  Frigid and dim.

            “W-where are we?” John asked, teeth slightly chattering, after a moment of silence.  Instead of answering him, Crowley shook off his supporting arm and limped over to the wall, where he flipped on a light switch.  As the seedy normal-looking fluorescents flickered on, Watson blinked his eyes.  They were in a perfectly normal looking room.

            “An office?”

            “An old, unused office.  You can tell by the temperature.  9th floor: Refrigerator, Storage level, and Ice Cream parlor.  This office was moved to storage quite a while ago, when its previous occupant revealed some rather incriminating information about me to Team Winchester, before they torched her.  I had always meant to search it to make sure she didn’t have anything further that would be… dangerous in the wrong hands.  Never got around to it though…”

            “Wait a minute…Torched?!” John interrupted the demon.

            “Yes, torched.  Set on fire.  Burned at the stake.  Annihilated in an inferno.  Whichever phrasing gets you up.  Regardless, the information she revealed almost sent me to the same fate, which is why…” Crowley trailed off as he noticed John’s horrified expression.

            “I… take it the Winchesters never fully explained their profession to you, then,” the demon realized.

            “I didn’t know it involved burning people!”

            "People?  God no.  They’re far too sanctimonious for that.  We’re…” Before he could continue, Crowley suddenly held up a hand to his own mouth to brace through the next horrible hacking cough that sounded full of blood or pneumonia.  But as Watson watched on in growing horror, instead of blood or phlegm or any known bodily fluid making an appearance, a thick crimson smoke filled the demon’s eyes and mouth, appearing to burn whatever it touched, as it strained against an invisible barrier.

            The demon gagged, and took a good minute to recover himself from the convulsions.  Soon his eyes cleared and he leaned back, breathing heavily.

            “What… what was that?” John asked, characteristically allowing his medical and professional curiosity to supersede all else.

            “Ironically, the answer to your next question… due to the amount of pain I’m in, I’m… involuntarily rejecting my vessel.  But sigils… they prevent smoking out,” Crowley told him wearily, not really expecting the human doctor to understand the more nitpicky aspects of demon physiology.  By the look on the military doctor’s face, he didn’t.  Crowley sighed audibly, then reached up and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled it down.

            Once again, Watson subconsciously stepped backward in horror of the oozing wounds carved into Crowley’s skin.  Crowley winced a smile, grimly amused.  The top left portion of his torso didn’t even have any of the interesting sigils.

            “What the Hell… what are those?!” After he recovered from the initial shock, John inched forward again, still unable to prevent his curiosity.

            “Well I’d love to play Strip Jeopardy for the answer but I really haven’t got the energy today.  It’s a sigil, just like all of the other 255 markings our hosts were so kind to give me free medieval tattoos of.  This one belongs to… the Rituale Romanum, I’d say.  No… maybe the Eastern Byzantium version.  Still, though a little outdated, it’s still quite the Church exorcist classic.  Which is why it’s so damn effective,” Crowley surmised through gritted teeth, as he gingerly touched the sigil.  As soon as his fingers made contact, they sizzled ferociously, forcing him to pull back.

            “Exorcist?!” John repeated, voice slightly higher than usual.  “You’re a…

            “Demon, yes.  Also however, an altruistic humanitarian sort and decidedly the most capable member of the new and improved Team Free Will, though judging by your racist tone, I’m guessing the Winchesters neglected to mention the latter two,”  Crowley turned away from Watson and limped slowly over to the desk on the other side of the room.  Gingerly he sat down in the chair, then he began pulling out the drawers, searching through them methodically.

            For John, the realization took about two seconds, five deciseconds, and six centiseconds to set in.

            “YOU…!” The anger infiltrated the doctor’s voice instantly.  “YOU’RE Crowley!?”

            “Guilty as charged… though sadly your dulcet tone confirms my suspicions about the Winchesters,” Crowley continued his search, unconcerned.

            “YOU were the one who stole my soul!” Watson reminded him, a quiet but intense anger flooding his voice.  At his words however, Crowley stopped short and looked up, confused.

            “Stole…?!” the demon asked, brow furrowed.

            “Yes!  STOLE MY SOUL,” John repeated, slow, loud, and heated, “I don’t care if you managed some subconscious desire crap legal jargon…”

            “Okay, first off, it’s impossible to take a soul without full consent of said soul’s owner which, last time I checked, is the definition of stealing.  Secondly, I’ve never seen you before in my life, let alone mashed faces with, so unless you got some unbelievably good plastic surgery, possibly a sex-change, and are under witness protection in another dimension… I’m fairly certain to the point of omniscient about the fact we don’t have a deal,” Crowley told him flatly, resuming his search.

            “You… you don’t know what I’m talking about?” John was thoroughly taken aback.

            “I BELIEVE you’re talking about a deal, which is certainly my area of expertise.  But no, I do not know anything of this deal you’re jabbering on about that you allegedly didn’t make with me, yet still exists.”

            “But the angel manifested the contract, burned into my skin!  It had your signature!  AND A NOTE FROM YOU!” John exclaimed, voice rising again.

            “Did it ever occur to any of you morons that signatures can be forged?” Crowley asked, unimpressed, “I hate to pop your bubble of politically correct history books, but it’s how the majority of the nations of the world were created.  Deceit, lies, a few forgeries, and a legitimate deal with yours truly.”

            At this John faltered.  Crowley sighed.

            “While forging a Crossroads contract is possible – anyone can write on anyone’s skin if it’s thick enough – it’s still impossible to take a soul without consent.  Did the ‘angel’ check your SOUL?”

            “Um… I’m not sure.  How would that work?”

            “Believe me, you’d have remembered if he had.  So let’s proceed under the assumption that either your contract is either fake… or it may have stipulated that your memory of making it be erased,” Crowley conjectured aloud, as he continued to rummage through drawers.

            “That… makes absolutely no sense.”

            “I’ve drawn up contracts with more twisted kinks before.”

            “Okay well… can’t you check my soul here?” Watson suggested.

            “One: remember the no magic rule?  The energy resulting from exposing a human soul would draw attention to us even faster than magic use.  Two: even faster than that, your screams would give away our location,” Crowley told him, shutting a drawer and moving on to another one.

            “Oh,” Watson said a little quietly.

            “Our best bet is to keep striking out on foot until we make it to the elevator… provided they haven’t shut it down yet.  Once we make it out of here, I’ll check your ‘deal’ more thoroughly than the featherhead knows how.”

            “Strike out on foot?  You can’t even limp without my help-” John was interrupted by Crowley’s triumphant “AHA!” as he produced what appeared to be a wicked looking switchblade from the keyboard drawer of the desk, and stood shakily.

            “Best thing about demons – they’re stupidly predictable.  Except me of course,” Crowley said, waving the knife between his fingers for Watson to see, “Here, catch.”

            Watson, not as stupid as Sherlock sometimes gave him credit for, moved out of the way allowing the dangerously spinning knife to hit the ground and stop moving, before he put his hand anywhere near it.

            “A switchblade?  How exactly is this supposed to help us- what… what ARE you doing?” John had looked up from the knife to find Crowley hastily undoing his tie and taking his shirt off.

            “Don’t get excited.  If I was really into you, there’d be a lot more foreplay first.  Just ask Sam.  I need you to use that knife and disrupt a specific sigil,” Crowley informed him, taking a pen and notepad off the desk and beginning to draw, as he sat on the edge of the desk.

            “I’m sorry… disrupt a sigil?” Watson’s mind was clearly having a hard time working while confronted with the gruesome sight of the demon’s torso.  Every inch appeared to be covered with some sort of satanic carving.

            “You know, this would go a lot faster if you did more than just repeat everything I say.  For instance, if you were to ask ‘Which sigil, Mr. Crowley?’ to which I would reply, ‘I’m glad you asked Watson, this one’,” Crowley ripped off the sheet of paper and handed it to Watson, who took it with something between a scowl and a very disturbed look.

            “I’d love for it to be on a part of me that’s not already uncovered,” Crowley flashed him a demonic smile, “but in order for that particular sigil to work, it requires quite intricate carving, and since human flesh gets messier the smaller you go…”

            “Yeah I get it.  Probably a bigger canvas,” John shuddered slightly, as he walked around the demon, scanning his horrendously scarred form.

            It didn’t take long to find it – the sigil was on Crowley’s back, spanned between the two shoulder blades, both of which also appeared to have their endpoints sticking out of Crowley’s skin.  When Watson mentioned this, Crowley scowled ferociously.

            “Dammit.  I should’ve known I wouldn’t make it out of here with my wings…” the demon muttered.  “Well never mind that for the moment – I’ll worry about them later.  For now, go ahead and disrupt the sigil.”

            “Right.  And how exactly do I do that?” John asked, though he already knew he wouldn’t like the answer.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, it’s clear now that Holmes keeps you around just to make himself feel even smarter in comparison to your utter idiocy.  Why do you think I gave you that KNIFE?” Crowley seized the paper and pen off the desk and drew a massive line through the copy of the sigil on the paper, before pointedly showing it to Watson.

            John swallowed.

            “This may hurt a bit…” he flicked open the knife and picked a starting point.

            “A small cut should do the trick – as long as you cross one of the lines of the sigil, the entirety of its effect will be shut down,” the demon instructed.

            “What does this ‘sigil’ do, anyway?”

            “It blocks my ability to heal.  Hopefully once that’s gone, I’ll be able to heal both my injuries as well as most of the other scarring that forms the sigils relatively quickly, subsequently pushing the probability of our successful escape back onto the positive side of the number scale,” Crowley explained impatiently, “now what are you waiting on?!  Now is not the time to get squeamish.  Just imagine you’re cutting the guy who stole your soul- AAAGH!!” Crowley yelled sharply as John cut him.  The demon turned around to face the doctor.

            “That should do it,” John said, wiping his now bloodied hands on his pants.

            “That incision definitely feels larger than it needed to be,” Crowley criticized, wincing slightly from the pain.

            “Did it work?” John asked, finally deciding he should just be uninterested in Crowley’s pain.

            In response Crowley tilted his head, cracking his neck.  Then he closed his eyes and focused inwardly.  Bones first, large gashes next, first few sigils… As a few more seconds ticked by, the air around them seemed to grow… warmer.  When Crowley opened his eyes again, he was happy to see John’s eyes wide in that unique mundane-meets-magic fashion.

            “Suddenly my entire career as a doctor seems pointless,” Sherlock’s companion commented, watching the demon jealously.

            “Don’t believe everything your Sunday school teacher told you; being damned does have its perks…” Crowley told him with another smile, “Now… shall we continue our escapade?” The demon shoved himself off the desk with substantially more vigor than he had possessed mere moments ago, and picked up his tattered shirt and began to put it and his tie back on, despite their largely ruined condition.

            “So… I thought you said we couldn’t use magic without giving away our location.”

            “Correct.  But as we’re about to move away from this particular spot, I figured it was more important to risk a little cheating…” Crowley gestured toward the door and Watson followed, rolling his eyes.

            After apparently communing with the door again, Crowley led the way into a perfectly nondescript hallway, largely reminiscent of just about any lengthy purposeless office building.  As Watson took a moment to look around, Crowley turned, flicked out the switchblade, and carved a sigil into the wood of the door.  Hopefully it would throw off their pursuers a bit longer, though Crowley wasn’t counting on it for much.  After standing back to admire his handiwork, he pocketed the knife and looked to Watson, who nodded curtly.  Together they set off, Crowley taking a brisk lead, as if he was confident he knew exactly where they were.  Which he was.  Sort of.

            The problem with Hell was that it was ever changing.  Yes, everything was in the general area… but the plane of existence was not physical by any means, and therefore not really bound by laws of a physical plane.  Rooms could change.  Entire wings could change, all at the whim of those in control of the plane.  When Crowley was in charge, things were ordered.  Logical.  But now that Lucifer was back… well, the original devil was known for many things, but strict order was not one.

            Thinking over all of this, Crowley made a few educated guesses turning through a couple hallways and was pleased to feel he had a general sense of where they were.  Crossroads Filing – it was impossible for the ex-King of the Crossroads NOT to recognize the subtle smell of dusty old contracts.  They smelt of happier carefree days when all he had to worry about was how much it would take to sell the next client.  As they continued down the hallways of filing rooms, Crowley consciously focused on bringing his thoughts back down to the situation at hand.  Hopefully they weren’t too far from the elevator.  Hopefully the elevator would still be working.  Without his wings, the only way out was on foot, and that meant the elevator… or Wyoming.

            “The angel and the Winchesters were… debating… about maybe a subconscious desire allowing for a subconscious deal to take place…?” Watson mentioned, clearly still interested in the subject at hand – his lost and found soul.  At the suggestion however, Crowley glanced back at him like he was a moron.

            “Were you all dropped on the head a great deal?” he asked incredulously, “Consent means consent!  Consciousness is a REQUIREMENT.”

            “Well it was their idea, not mine…” Watson muttered.

            “If you have any working brain cells left, take my advice – don’t turn to the Winchesters or their flying monkey for anything that requires stimulating thought and/or scintillating conversation.  That’s more my department.”

            “Okay then… what’s your clever idea for this situation?”

            “Ah see there’s your second mistake.  Now you’re confusing me with your playmate Sherlock Holmes.  Sorry love – while my mind is all aflutter with the possibilities, I don’t share with the class until I’m absolutely sure I can rub the end result in your comically stupefied faces.”

            “Doesn’t sound that different from Sherlock at all, actually,” Watson muttered, unimpressed.

            “I do have one question… did you by any chance find out what you got your soul ‘stolen’ for?” Crowley asked as an afterthought.

            “Yeah.  To see Sherlock again.”

            “My, my.  How romantic.  And utterly useless.”

            “There were other things too.  A bunch of them.  So many that then angel couldn’t read them all.  That was part of your note – I was your… Christmas Tree bill?”

            “My what-?” Crowley stopped short, suddenly extremely interested again.  “You’re a Christmas Tree deal?”

            “Well that’s what we thought you had planned!” Watson explained exasperatedly.  “It was in your note – you offered me as a Christmas present!  Wasn’t that what you meant?”

            “Possibly.  Probably.  I might have meant something else as well,” Crowley wondered aloud, somewhat cryptically.  His mind was racing.  He never would have considered it before, but with all that was happening now…

            “You don’t know what you meant?” Watson asked, eyeing him with a concerned look.

            “It’s the middle of July – or at least it was when I was thrown in here.  At any rate, Christmas is at least 5 months away still,” Crowley said thoughtfully.

            “What does that have to do with anything?  I thought we decided you mentioned that because you were alluding to a Christmas Tree Bill?!”

            “And I said probably.  But the other thing I might have meant was that it was indeed Christmas.  Or at least, it was Christmas for the version of myself that made the deal.  Ohhhh that’s clever,” Crowley smiled viciously.  “That is CLEVER, even for me.”

            “You… what?”

            “Time Travel, my dear Watson, Time Travel,” Crowley turning to him with a grin.

            “Sorry?” John was completely lost now.

             “While your rather stupid unconscious consent idea would make for a terrible explanation… I think the loophole that allowed your precarious little predicament might just have something to do with Time Travel.  It’s all the rage this Apocalypse you know.”

            “Time Travel… good to know…” Watson agreed weakly.  He was very obviously trying his best to process the information, but without much success.

            “It all makes sense!  A future version of myself, made a future deal with YOURSELF, resulting in a perfectly legitimate contract between willing soul and demon.  However the contract was able to be inscribed on a past you and put into effect mostly around you.  Which makes you…”

            “The unluckiest person in the universe?” John suggested, not nearly as impressed by the ‘cleverness’ of his situation.

            “A gift from my future self,” Crowley’s eyes gleamed.  “I was beginning to wonder if we had just about run out of aces for this Apocalypse but ohhhh… you.  You, John Watson will win us the war for sure.”

            “Right.  Let’s focus on getting out first, shall we?” John suggested, suddenly uncomfortable under the demon’s gaze, which was almost lustful in nature.

             “Of course.  I believe the escape route we’re looking for is just up ahead,” Crowley nodded down the hallway.

            A moment of swift walking brought them to it.  A large set of gleaming black metal elevator doors, at least twelve feet high and fifteen feet wide.

            “An elevator?  Are we underground then?” John asked, curious.

            “Traditionally people like to think so… though the physicist’s concept of frames of reference don’t apply here all too well,” the demon smiled grimly, before pressing the button to summon the lift.

            For a moment they waited in silence.  Then with a soft tone, the elevator arrived and the doors slid open smoothly.

            “The installation of this was pricy, but it’s paid over more times than I can count.  The Winchesters would kill me if they knew it existed,” Crowley led the way into the elevator.  The inside appeared to be just as elegant as the outside.  Smooth polished black walls, and silvery floor, with red accented lighting.  When they both were inside, the doors slid shut, and an elevator version of “Devil in Disguise” began playing.  Crowley moved over to the panel of buttons.

            “I… have a bad feeling about where we are,” John mentioned, it finally seeming to dawn on him.

            “Don’t think about it too hard.  Half of the effect of this place is brought on by mental anguish,” Crowley told him, scanning the buttons.  He stopped.  There was one too many.

            “No, not that… I mean this lift… it’s practically a death trap.  Especially if they’re waiting for us at the top.”

            “Right… well change of plans anyway.  Not to sound too much like your *other* companion but, there’s something we need to… investigate.”

            “What?  No!  We were LEAVING!” Watson reminded him.

            “They added a level.  A whole new floor,” Crowley gestured to the panel.  “That means it has to be something big. Really big.  Like Winchester-self-esteem-problem big,” Crowley bit his lip, thinking, “there won’t be another chance to come back later… this is our only chance to get an up-close and personal look at the enemy’s plans.”

            Watson took a breath, and his features hardened.

            “It’s now or never,” Crowley told him, watching John’s face carefully.

            He nodded.  Crowley pressed the button.

            Instantly two things happened: the music and lights appeared to short out, and the button, that should have been glowing red, was now blinking blue.

            “What… did you do?” Watson asked the inevitable question.

            “I’m sure we’re about to find out.  Now do us all a favor and keep your mouth shut and your useless questions from inhibiting my thinking,” Crowley hissed.

            For a tense moment, nothing happened.  The only sound that could be heard was their own bated breath.  Then Watson’s cell phone rang.

            It would be a lie to say neither of them jumped at the sound.  When they had recovered from the initial shock, John hurriedly fished the device out of his pocket and, after glancing at the unknown number, looked at Crowley.  The demon instantly gestured for him to answer it.  Watson flipped open the phone and put it on speaker.

            “Well, well, well… what have we here?  Mice, caught in a rat trap?”

            The smooth patronizing voice was one Crowley had heard before, and had known he would hear again.  It was a voice that belonged to a face that lingered in the back of his mind as a deal that had been poorly crafted in desperation, and one that would come back to haunt him.  But though it bothered Crowley, and he knew it was about to bother him more, in the eerie white blue glow from the cellphone, the demon could see that the voice positively disturbed Watson.  For good reason.

            “Moriarty,” John’s face was set, hard as stone.  But his eyes betrayed his fear.  And his hatred.

            “John, John, John… I thought we’d been over this.  Call me Richard!  It’s what I prefer to go by these days…,” Moriarty’s voice was patronizing as always, but it sounded strange.  Layered.  As if he had recorded himself speaking and played the recording several times simultaneously.  In any other instance it would have been ridiculous and laughable.  Here it was making Crowley’s mind and Watson’s pulse race.

            “How did you survive?” Watson asked, voice cold, flat, and as emotionless as he could force himself to be.

            “I think the question you’re searching for is, HOW am I _here_?  And I’m sorry to say I don’t really have the answer to that question…  Well I do.  But I’m really not the one who ought to give it to you.  Am I, Mr. Crowley?”

            Crowley knew at least one facet of his game was up when Watson’s look of purest hatred turned to him.

            “It’s a terribly stupid business policy, burning bridges,” Crowley said lightly, in a warning tone.  Moriarty laughed.

            “I’m not typically one to cast aside lucrative connections, am I?  But then… your connection isn’t really all that lucrative anymore, is it?” Moriarty conjectured aloud, mock thoughtfully, “After all, you of all people know I work for a much higher power now…”

            “What is he talking about?” Watson asked Crowley, though the military doctor didn’t look like he would trust anything that came out of the demon’s mouth.

            “Apparently the fact that he has aligned himself with Lucifer,” Crowley informed the doctor.  Watson balked.

            “LUCIFER?!”

            “While your lack of education on current events is adorable as always John, I’m afraid I have to cut short this comedy.  I have many other matters to attend to, and you two are sadly only one loose end to be cut out before I can finish the sweater.”

            “Killing us?  Isn’t that a little boring for you?” Watson asked critically.  Moriarty laughed.

            “Dispatchment can prove to be boring, yes.  But that’s why I devised yours to be so deliciously unique.  You see, your friend Mr. Crowley has proved… difficult to kill in the past.  Plenty have attempted it with… rather pitiable results, such as their own death instead.”

            Watson glanced at Crowley, who shrugged.  Moriarty’s words were true.  Crowley was first and foremost a survivalist.  Secondly however, he was also one who would screw you ten times over the amount you screwed him.

            “Now, it probably would have been best to just do the deed while we had him in chains… but not only would that be an injustice to his memory, you know me to well Watson, to know I’d pass up an opportunity to win the game no one else could...”

            “While the whole killing attempt is a major turn-on, don’t you think you’d be wiser to learn from their example?  In that it’s an impossible game to win?” Crowley suggested, feigning mild interest.  He was talented enough to keep a rock solid face up, but it bothered Crowley that Moriarty apparently seemed bent on his destruction.  Part of the reason that Crowley managed to survive was that he avoided conflict that direct.

            “Oh but I have learned from their example… or rather, from the examples of the few times you were ensnared…” Moriarty drawled.  Crowley was silent at this – there were a few times.  And there were plenty of demons that would have been more than happy to list some of the occasions to anyone who thought they might be able to use it against Crowley.

            “I wasn’t quite how he would attempt to escape… imagine my surprise when it ended up involving John Watson, my very dear old friend.  Sometimes dreams do come true I suppose…” Moriarty sounded as if he was losing himself in a daydream.

            “But, the real trick with people like you, _Fergus_ , is merely allowing them to lead themselves into the trap.  You, Sherlock… that Doctor fellow….  You all think you’re SO smart, but all it takes is a little stage show, and then you ‘think’ yourselves into your own destruction,” Moriarty voice rang about them, laced with truth that Crowley had a bad feeling was about to hurt more than expected.

            “It takes more than a soliloquy to prove you’ve beaten me,” Crowley remarked coldly after a moment.

            “Does it?  Well then, let me illuminate the situation for you.  I have always agreed that the best way to kill a King… is too separate him from his Kingdom.”

            Crowley was silent, as the truth Moriarty was getting at came to him.

            “You ‘thought’ this was Hell, didn’t you?  And no, John I don’t mean that as a metaphor.  Your companion, his Majesty didn’t explicitly tell you where you were was because he legitimately _thought_ you were both in Hell.  And oh, how he knew the corridors of his kingdom like the back of his hand,” Moriarty’s voice gushed patronization like an open wound.

            “How?” was the only question from Crowley.

            “Oh I’ve spent plenty of time down there myself lately… and if there’s one thing I pride myself on, it’s the details I put into my little set here.  Some background music, a little hallucinogen to pump through the ventilation, to mess with your memories and perceptions… oh and then plenty of good old fashioned corn syrup blood recipe… or was that real?”

            Neither Watson nor Crowley could think of anything to say to this – both were too busy wrapped in their own slightly horrified thoughts.

            “Now.  It is with regret I must inform you two gentlemen that there is one problem with this set I built… I just could NOT figure out how to get this elevator working properly… So, I’m sorry to say, while it is quite efficient, traveling at an average rate of just over 8 miles per second, it only really goes one direction: down.  So don’t feel too bad… any button pressed would have ended just as badly… At any rate, your trip will take you about 3 minutes and 37 seconds.  I took the liberty of picking a song out for your flight, since any watches you have will probably melt.  Hope you don’t mind me overwriting your admittedly fitting elevator music.”

            “What?!  Where are you sending us!?” John couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

            “Georgia… or the metaphorical equivalent, I suppose.  To explain it simply, I couldn’t think of anything EXCITING that the King of Hell probably hasn’t already experienced what with the magic and the torture...  simply too much experience under the belt… So… fantastical and existential experiences aside, I figured might as well give him a little taste of how even boring old reality itself can feel like ‘ _Hell_ ’.”

            “You’re making a mistake!  You need us, or - you need him!” Crowley argued, trying to think quickly and buy them more time simultaneously, “I hate to purposefully insult your pedigree, but if there’s one thing anyone who follows the story knows, it’s that there’s no other way to beat Sherlock without using leverage.”

            Watson looked at him like he was crazy, but Crowley ignored him.

            “I suppose that’s true…” Moriarty acknowledged.  There was what sounded like a high pitched whine that began to sound through the phone.

             “But I’m not playing Sherlock’s game anymore,” Moriarty said in such a way they could hear the insane grin behind his unnaturally layered voice, “Enjoy your flight!”

            The call ended.  After a second, only the highlighting lights of the elevator flickered on, casting the room that was to be their tomb in a wash of red light.

            As promised, there was another crackle of audio, and four rapid drumbeats sounded out, starting the musical timer.

            Then the elevator lurched, and suddenly they were accelerating downward.


	23. Of All the Possibilities in all the Time Streams in all the Multiverses

Super **Who** Lock **  
**

            It took a little over fifteen minutes for Sherlock to wake up after the procedure. When he did, he sat up instantly and remained perfectly still, his spine forming a rigid 90 degree angle with the couch he had been resting on. There was a silence in the room, the detective's sudden movement having drawn the attention of all the other members of the team who had previously been on cleaning detail.

            Raising his new left hand, Sherlock gingerly touched his eyes, the horrible burns having finally disappeared. Then in a cold emotionless voice that cracked only on the last word, he announced to the others.

            "It didn't work."

            The Doctor moved to his side swiftly.

            "You're talking about your eyes? You still can't see?" The Time Lord asked.

            "No, I'm talking about the Winchesters' parents' probable attempt at happiness!" The detective snapped, before barely reigning himself in.

            "It's not just my eyes. It's… everything. Nothing worked… except this ridiculous hand swap. I have no knowledge of the time vortex – everything in my mind is still exactly the same as it was before." Sherlock's voice, which had turned to vicious anger, now regressed to an almost defeated tone. The Doctor bit his lip, then turned and swiped a flashlight off the nearby table. Turning it on, he shone it at Sherlock's face.

            "I saw this on TV once." The Time Lord told the Winchesters, as he moved the flashlight back and forth. "The fact his pupils aren't contracting could mean a host of human illnesses. Of course, since his pupils aren't really there at all and have been replaced by what appear to be rather thick cataracts over the entirety of both his eyes… yeah I'd say the magically induced blindness is still a problem."

            "My belief in the legitimacy of your medical title is rising with every diagnosis." Sherlock commented dryly.

            "I thought you didn't believe in magic." Sam mentioned.

            "You call it magic because you know it works but you don't question or understand how. I know it to be a rustic grid of pre-existing scientifically explainable manipulations of time and space, accessed through the correct words and ingredients. Your 'spells' are like a series of programs in reality, if you will, devised by a beings who were able to naturally manipulate the universe. For this layman's magic, all you need to run the program is what they stipulated originally – the correct input." The Doctor attempted to explain, "All other magic done by 'supernatural beings' are merely different species using their various natural abilities to manipulate reality. The angel knows what I'm talking about." The Time Lord winked at Castiel, who nodded his head curtly.

            "Okay well, all I'm really concerned with at the moment is does any of that alien poindexter 'understanding' help Holmes here?" Dean interrupted.

            "Yes and no. We could spend our time attempting to scientifically understand how angelically induced blindness is caused and seek to 'fix it' or 'disrupt the program' as it were… or we could chalk the blindness up to a blessing in disguise." The Doctor said thoughtfully.

            "Blessing in disguise?!" Sherlock spoke up, incredulous anger evident. Across the room, Castiel looked thoughtful.

            "Human beings were given five senses, and yet they only ever seem to treasure the one in particular. But when you humans do lose your sense of sight, it allows the others to reach much greater potential. Those who are blind can smell, taste, feel and hear so much more. That enhanced ability to listen alone is why more than one prophet was made blind in his or her time." The angel described, almost fondly.

            "If only I had lost my hearing instead of my sight, I would still be in business AND I wouldn't have to listen to such idiotic compensatory speeches." Sherlock savagely remarked, unimpressed. "As much as I know the first step in consoling a victim is to propose a positive spin, I hate to tell you that in this case any and all positive spins is still an incalculable loss. I'm not a prophet, I'm a consulting detective. The reason I'm HERE is because you needed someone to solve your puzzle – to figure out what YOU were too incompetent to unravel! And in order to do so, I NEED TO BE ABLE TO SEE AND NOTICE THE THINGS YOU COULD NOT."

            "I am aware this must be hard for you, but there's more to it than that." The Doctor took over again, "Your blindness could very well be key to you successfully managing both Time Lord and human nature. The loss of your sight is so keen an injury, something unforgettable, that it will help you focus on what it was like TO have sight. It should help you focus on your own memories of being human. Likewise, being severed from seeing things in the physical world should help be able to process what you see through the Time Vortex." The Time Lord explained, his voice taking on an extremely gentle tone.

            "Because we're all so impressed with the way the Time Lord mind transplant was just as successful as the blindness cure!" Sherlock spat, his frustration reaching a metaphorical boiling point. The Doctor sat back, confused at the detective's words for a moment before snapping his fingers, recalling another critical element of the memory of what had happened the first time.

            "Ah – you still need stimulation. I knew I forgot something! It takes an electrical jolt of some significance to stimulate the Time Lord DNA so ah…" the Time Lord moved towards the kitchen as he explained, practically able to feel the others' collective gaze on his back. "Just give me a second-" the doctor called back into the living room as began opening and shutting drawers in search of what he was looking for. "I'm fairly certain everyone has one so it should be around here somewhere – Ah-HA!" The Doctor triumphantly exclaimed upon locating the silverware drawer, which he promptly pulled out too far, leading to the entirety of its contents crashing to the ground in a spectacular clatter. Hastily he bent down and scooped up the utensil he had been looking for, before leaving the mess on the floor and heading back to the others.

            "Your Mr. Singer keeps an excellently organized kitchen," the Doctor proclaimed with a wide smile as he returned, "unfortunately, I may have been the causation of the need to use past tense when referring to it, henceforth."

            No one responded. Castiel merely looked at him curiously, while the Winchesters finished exchanging loaded glances.

            "Right. It would seem we'll have to work on the concept of having a laugh amidst work later. For now…" the Doctor moved over to Sherlock's side and pressed the silverware into his hand, "This is for you!"

            "A fork?" The detective asked, fingers probing the cold metal for a second confirmation.

            "Yes! And here's the second one. Now, I'm pretty sure I saw one of those hole thing-a-majigs in the wall around here somewhere… what do you call them?"

            "An outlet?" Castiel provided. Immediately both Winchesters simultaneously jumped to their feet in protest.

            "Doctor, we are NOT sticking forks into wall sockets – that's how we humans get fried extra crispy." Dean took the silverware out of Sherlock's hands before the Time Lord could go any further in his mad science experiment.

            "But near electrocution was what worked last time, and…"

            "-then we can use something safer. Like a Taser. I'm fairly sure Bobby has one around here somewhere..." Sam diverted tactfully, heading out of the room, "And if we can't find that, we can go to any public place and stage a heart attack."

            "Trust me Doctor, no matter how much Time Lord DNA you've stuffed into him, home variety electrocution is probably not the way to go." Dean told the Time Lord firmly as Sam vanished. Only slightly disappointed, the Doctor let the Winchester take the silverware back to the kitchen as the rest waited for the alternative electrocution method.

            Sure enough, within three minutes Sam returned, Taser in hand.

            "For the record, I still think this is a medically bad idea." The elder Winchester announced to no one in particular.

            "The entire procedure was a poor decision if Sherlock's medical health was our primary concern. But I was under the impression that we had universally decided to abandon that as a priority…" Cas spoke up, slightly confused.

            "Sometimes when people say one thing, they really mean another. Like how we told you last week you were getting better at understanding the innate subconscious element to prioritizing. That was a well-intentioned white lie." Dean told him sardonically, causing the angel to fall unusually quiet.

            "Alright, let's get this party on the road." Sam said, double checking the Taser's settings, "This model is 50,000 volts at 26 watts. Hopefully that will be more than enough. You ready, Sherlock?"

            "As I'll ever be." The detective responded curtly. Sam nodded, raised the Taser, and pulled the trigger.

            There was a sharp noise as the pins were released and shot forward into Sherlock's chest, followed then the repetitive clicking noise as the current surged through the detective. Sherlock opened his mouth to cry out in pain, but no sound issued forth as all muscle spasms became victim to the electricity surging through his body.

            For a moment, the Doctor could tell Sherlock felt nothing but the numbness and pain from the electricity. Then on his face went slack in shock; the floodgates had been opened.

            The Doctor knew what he must be seeing: in one instant, everything crashing in. Memories. Figures. Numbers. Places. Galaxies. Sights that he should not have seen. Years upon years and worlds upon worlds. Terrible lies told to protect people. Terrible truths revealed to destroy them. Secrets.

            It would be overwhelming.

            At the other end of the Taser, Sam glanced at the Doctor, who nodded curtly, knowing that just the four seconds of exposure had been enough. The younger Winchester quickly switched off the electrical weapon and moved forward to take the electrodes off of Sherlock. After he had done so, he stood back, allowing the Doctor to move forward. The Time Lord knelt down and brought a hand up in front of the dazed detective, snapping his fingers lightly.

            "Sherlock Holmes… are you with us?"

            "…I… yes?" Sherlock answered him with the intonation of a question. He was clearly distracted.

            "Hang on to that. You're Sherlock Holmes. Don't lose sight of that fact. Now listen to me carefully. I'm going to help you sort the memories quickly, and then we're going to run through some tests to determine your mental status, sound good?"

            "… Yes of course. Brain degeneration is… something to be avoided if at all possible."

            "Indeed it is. Now first things first: DON'T try to organize it all."

            "…sorry?"

            "Organizing and examining. I know your personality type – what memory system are you using? File Cabinet? Clothesline? Mansion?"

            "…mind palace." Sherlock told him distractedly.

            "Of course. Why not store the abstract in style? Listen to me Sherlock – if you attempt to store all of this flood of new memories, your palace will be wiped out. Destroyed. And your mind will break. So for once in your life, I want you to just let the memories flow around naturally."

            "But it's important that I am able to remember-"

            "No- you don't need to focus on it. Time Lords aren't like human beings. They can't forget unless their memories are purposefully edited - Time Lord DNA prevents it. But what you CAN lose is your human memories, if you allow the Time Lord ones to wash them away."

            By this time Sherlock had broken out into a sweat.

            "I can't… how…" the detective's taxed mind was having trouble formulating words let alone accomplishing what the Doctor was telling him he needed to to.

            "Alright this is what I want you to do," the Doctor began, "Visualize your mind palace. Focus on it like you taught yourself to do."

            "…" Sherlock was silent, but the tension in his face seemed to ease somewhat.

            "Now I want you to see the Time Lord memories as what they are: an infinite network of possibilities branching out in time and space. Some of the streams will try to shoot through your mind palace, but I don't want you to attempt to connect them. The endless possibilities will destroy your human memories from the inside. The only way to remain sane is to keep your memories and experiences locked up tight in their own place entirely - Your mind palace is yours exclusively – treat it like a space station in the great abyss… or er, a rocky island amidst a stormy sea."

            The room was oddly tense for a good minute, before eventually Sherlock started to relax. The Doctor patted him on the shoulder lightly.

            "That's it." The Time Lord said with a smile. "Now I want you to mentally keep yourself inside your mind palace – or at least on the porch. Don't let go of your humanity – you'll be lost in the Vortex."

            "… understood." Sherlock nodded again, finally able to speak.

            "Right, let's say we run some tests now, hm? To begin with: how's your motor function?" The Doctor asked Sherlock.

            The detective lifted his left arm and flexed his new hand. "Functioning properly."

            "Good. If I had a clipboard, I'd check physical health off in official fashion. Tell me, where do you live?"

            "221B Baker Street, London."

            "Occupation?"

            "Consulting Detective. With a dash of National Hero."

            "Cases solved?

            "256. Maybe 253, if you don't count the three I had John do everything for me while I was trying to catch up on a show."

            "Cases unsolved?"

            "2 – The mystery of whatever Moriarty has over the woman, and this current one."

            "Who is the woman?"

            "River- no, Adler. Irene Adler."

            The Doctor sat back again, a mixture of concern and pride written across his face.

            "Well, at the moment you seem to have a fairly firm grip on your own memories… but the more you delve into the ones I've given you, the more your own will slip. I want you to keep focusing on that set of questions to keep yourself grounded in who you are."

            "It is fortunate he already has a well-defined personality. It will take more than a small force to wash it away." Castiel pointed out from across the room.

            "True." The Doctor said. Then the Time Lord leaned forward again. "Now Sherlock… what do you see?"

            Sherlock paused for a moment, something akin to a smile breaking across his face.

            "So many stars. Their beginnings... and ends. The many solar systems surrounding them. Civilizations scattered here and there. Existing. Not existing. So many… versions of what might happen. What has happened." Sherlock described.

            "At least the crazy is only passed through appendage donation." Dean muttered to Sam.

            "Dean, shut up."

            "He's not as far off as you might think, Sam." The Doctor interjected thoughtfully. "Like Sherlock said, he's seeing everything. All possible time lines at once. The same thing I see in my head." The Doctor tapped his own forehead with a tired smile. "All Time Lord minds are exposed to the raw Time Vortex as soon as they are chosen… as children. Some are entranced, some horrified. Some stare into its depths enthralled, and some flee… but after that initial exposure, none can escape the memory of it – and all of us go mad to some extent. The Time Vortex breaks your mind in such a way you develop an affinity to always be able to perceive the time streams inside your mind. Over time and years of training all are taught to manage it in some way, to control your access to it for only when it's needed. But it's impossible to say how much of that ability to shut out a roaring infinity of possibilities transferred to Sherlock…" the Time Lord looked at the detective, lost in thought. After a moment however, he spoke up again.

            "Sherlock, try to focus on this moment. This century. This year. This day. This moment."

            "I… there are still so many possibilities…" Sherlock reiterated, swallowing hard, "There's one in which the Winchesters don't exist. One in which you don't. One in which this planet doesn't."

            "Focus on the ones that DO have us in this moment. Me. Dean. Sam. Castiel. You. Here at the Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota."

            "Still so many lines. And at least several thousand lead to the same-" the detective stopped short, his face contorted as he focused. Then suddenly turned to look in the direction of Dean.

            "I need your Driver's License and your cellphone." Sherlock said urgently, standing. A bead of sweat dripped down his face.

            "What? Why?" Dean asked predictably confused and concerned.

            "Why do you always ask ridiculous questions that have impossibly long answers?" Sherlock retorted, beginning to feel his way hurriedly over to Bobby Singer's desk, as the rest watched, concerned. As he reached the desk, he stubbed his foot against it, before swinging himself down into the chair, cursing under his breath. Yanking open a drawer, he began to search it frantically, eventually producing what appeared to be a box. He opened it and pulled out a small bone with a satisfied smile.

            "Just where he left it." The detective said smugly, before lifting it to his nose and smelling it. Then he turned in the direction of the others.

            "Castiel, I need graveyard dirt, posthaste. It's on the second shelf in Mr. Singer's pantry. Dean, I still need your cellphone."

            Unlike Dean, the angel did not question the order, but swiftly moved to find the jar of which Sherlock spoke. As he left the room, the detective put the bone back in the box and began to rifle through another draw in Bobby's desk, before eventually producing an old Polaroid, which he promptly ripped in half.

            "Hold on just a second; what are you trying to do? Graveyard dirt? And what… a picture?" Sam began to realize what was going on. "If you're trying to make a deal…"

            "The only thing I'm trying to do is facilitate the continuation of this time-stream past the point where thousands of the others failed – by preparing this ahead of time." Sherlock said testily, shoving half of the photograph in the box with the bone. By this time Castiel had returned with the jar of plain looking dirt. Though the angel had arrived as wordlessly silent as he had left, as soon as he was within reach, the blind detective reached out and grabbed the jar from him, immediately wrenching the lid open and pouring a healthy portion into the box. When he had finished, he set the jar down hurriedly, shut the box, and held it out to the Winchesters expectantly.

            "Look, I'm not taking anything until you explain what the hell you think you're going to get me to do." Dean said frowning.

            "I don't need to tell you anything," Sherlock said, suddenly calm, "I think the phone conversation should cover that quite sufficiently."

            "What-"

            As if on cue, before Dean could get another word out, his phone rang. There was a beat as everyone stared at the electronic device, then Dean hastily answered it.

            "Hello?"

            In the silence of the room, everyone could hear the other side of the tinny conversation as clear as if they were the ones answering the phone.

            " _STOP WHATEVER - ...-YOU'RE DOING. IF YOU VALUE-…. -SUMMON ME IMMEDIATELY._ "

            It was clear wherever the other end of the call was, they were experiencing bad reception. On top of the initial static, the words were also almost drowned out by the horrendous background noise that sounded like periodic screeching metal, with a dash of music on top. But above even all of that, the voice was impossible not to recognize.

            "What the hell-Crowley?!" Dean asked into the phone incredulously. Before he could ask anything further, Sherlock plucked the phone from his hand and replaced it with the prepared box. Then turning to the phone, Sherlock began to fumble with it, attempting to press buttons he couldn't see. The Doctor quickly lent a hand, taking the device and turning on speaker phone in one swift move.

            " _DON'T HAVE MUCH TIME-…-, BUT -…- IN DANGER -…-YOU TO SUMMON ME-…-"_

            "Canton, where are you? What is that music in the background?" the Doctor asked eagerly, a sudden unexpected surge of joy at hearing the voice of the demon he had lost in the field.

            " _NO-…-TO EXPLAIN-...- JUST OVER TWO MINUTES-…- CROSSROADS-…-"_

            "Is that… Charlie Daniels'?" Dean asked, with a frown, recognizing an all-too-familiar violin solo.

            " _-…-YES IT'S CHARLIE DANIELS AND I SWEAR WINCHESTER, IF I DIE TO THIS IMBECILIC SONG I WILL PERSONALLY-…- YOUR GENITALIA-…-_ " The phone call lapsed into a large period of static.

            "Crowley, give us one good reason why should we help YOU?" Sam asked critically.

            " _-…- SUMMONING-…- OUR-…- ONLY CHANCE-…-"_

            "Our?" inquired Castiel, brow furrowing.

            Before Crowley could respond, there was a might surge of static, resulting in the call being dropped. The collective group stared at the phone for five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty.

            Suddenly there was a notification. A text had made it through after the call had dropped.

_WATSON_ _WITH ME._

            There was another beat in which everyone registered information. Then there was the banging of a screen door as Dean took off with the box to the crossroads at the edge of Bobby's property.

            "What did it say?" Sherlock asked in urgent anticipation, though the expression on his face said he already suspected.

            "He's got Watson." Sam said curtly, before grabbing a jacket and running after his brother.

            As the second Winchester ran off, the Doctor motioned that Castiel should help him with Sherlock, and the angel quickly complied. Together with Castiel supporting the detective and the Doctor holding the door, Sherlock made it across the room and out the back screen door.

            It did not escape the Doctor's notice that the detective had begun to shiver, but once Sherlock had made it past the treacherous steps of the porch, the detective shook off the Doctor and Castiel and broke into a run in the direction of Dean's loud voice inviting a specific Crossroad's demon in Latin. Watching him go, the angel and Time Lord were both prompted to pick up their own paces.

            Sherlock stumbled twice. But on the third trip, Sam Winchester was there to catch him, just as the Doctor and Castiel caught up, both breathing hard. Seconds after they arrived at the edge of the intersection, a graphic sound of meat sizzling and a horrible scream broke the calm South Dakotan air.

            Suddenly there was a figure in a fetal position in the middle of the crossroads. It might have been a healthy happy human once, but now it was closer to a corpse covered in large gruesome burns, complete with a rising trail of smoke.

            "JOHN!" Sherlock cried out, breaking free of Sam's support and heading blindly towards the voice of his friend. He dropped to his knees and reached out a hand slowly, feeling the heat coming off the body extremely close.

            "…NO!... Stay BACK!" John cried out instantly, raising an arm out to stop him. Sherlock retracted his own hand, confusion and concern in his expression.

            "John, what's wrong?" the detective asked urgently. John didn't respond, but curled inward more, shuddering. The detective turned to the others with the same urgency.

            "What's wrong with him?!" He demanded. The others were silent, for to them, the question that needed to be asked was obvious.

            "John… where's Crowley?" Sam asked slowly, as if the answer had already dawned on him.

            A convulsion racked through Watson. Perhaps it started as a mangled cry of pain, but it mutated and transformed, building into reverberation in the chest before it was released as what it never should have naturally been: a laugh.

            It quickly turned into a cough, but it achieved the desired effect nonetheless. Instantly the consulting detective scrambled back, and the Winchesters swore violently.

            On the ground, John Watson uncurled himself, wincing as if in extreme pain the entire time, until he managed to get his knees. To those who had exclusive pleasure of seeing, it was clear Sherlock's companion should not have survived his burn injuries. But he had. And now he looked up at them, with eyes as red as his seared flesh.

            "Hello Boys." Crowley said, flashing a bloody smile to match his crimson gaze. "Long time, no see."

 


End file.
